


Sleep in the Snow

by orphan_account



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Anxiety, Aphonia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muteness, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Permanent Injury, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Easy,” X warned. “Don't hurt him.”Frank could've laughed, if he wasn't about to cry instead.





	1. The Basement

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming. Thank you to my wonderful beta, [greyscare](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greyscare/pseuds/greyscare), and all the authors on here who have encouraged me to publish my work. You fuckin' rock!
> 
>  _ **This fic is heavy.**_ Although mostly all of the disturbing tags do not apply to the main two characters (Frank and Gerard), the story is brutal, especially in the beginning. I will do content warnings and summaries at the beginnings and ends of chapters with really scary stuff, but PLEASE read the tags! That said:
> 
> CW Chapter 1: graphic depiction of violence, rape, psychotic episode

Frank sat in the corner of the basement huddled with his knees to his chest. The floor was filthy, but he didn't care, it was freezing down here. It was like this last winter too; the cold was insidious, not only making him shake even more than usual, but painfully reminding him of those first few bitter months. Those were the months in which he’d lost his hope, his identity, his life. He wished they'd put a space heater down here, or a bed, or at least a clear window so he could see the snow that he knew must be falling. All he had was the old box-spring mattress, which was somehow even colder and less comfortable than the floor. Besides, he couldn't sleep in that bed anyway—not after what _they'd_ done there. It wasn't for sleeping.

His stomach growled loudly and it seemed to echo throughout the space. X tried to feed him every other day, which was horrible in itself, but more often than not he forgot even that and Frank would go days without eating. It must've been almost a week since he last ate, he thought. He remembered reading somewhere that the less you eat, the more your stomach shrinks. His stomach felt about the size of a peanut.

He sighed and closed his eyes against the already dark room, trying to focus on the repetitive sound of the water dripping from the sink faucet in the adjacent corner and not the creepy moaning of the pipes above his head. Mostly, he tried to ignore the heavy creak in the floorboards above. _Not now_ , he thought. _Too weak. Not_ now.

_drip. drip. drip._

Suddenly, a pale shaft of light fell onto the center of the room and he heard heavy footsteps descending the creaky stairs. His heart jumped into his throat and he leapt to his feet, feeling himself get dizzy as he scrambled to kneel in front of the stairs, arms behind his back, the picture of submission. He shook his head to clear the black spots from his vision and tilted his head up just as X stepped into view. He was carrying the camera in one hand and the folded up tripod in the other. Frank cursed himself for being such a coward, being so obedient. Wasn’t he the one who didn’t want this? He was suddenly hyper-aware of his thudding heart in his chest, the goosebumps on his arms, the way his muscles were aching and tensing—and not from the cold.

“Hello, Baby,” X crooned. "You can stand." Frank did so immediately. The man was looking down at him with a look that Frank would call sweet, if he didn't know any better. He shivered under the thin hoodie X had given him when the other man had realized Frank might get hypothermia if he didn't. It smelled like cigarettes and semen, with stains to show it. He stared at the ground and listened to X setting up the camera tripod in front of them, the man taking the SD card out of his pocket and popping it into the device. Frank heard the quiet beep of the camera turning on and swallowed the bile in his throat. X smiled coldly.

“Hey, Baby,” he repeated, louder for the camera.

Frank just continued to shake, staring down at his thin-socked feet to avoid the much taller man’s gaze. He tried to concentrate on the dirt between his toes, but he couldn't really feel them. His fingers were numb too, he realized. He gingerly brought them up to his face and blew warm air onto them, but his hands were shaking a lot and he accidentally hit himself in the nose. It was so fucking, goddamn _ridiculously_ cold.

X grabbed Frank’s hands from his face and kissed them, his sharp stubble causing pinpoints of pressure. Frank felt a chill run all the way from his neck to the base of his spine. He didn't want X to touch him; he didn't want anyone to touch him. Instinctively he tried to yank his hands away, but X instantly tightened his grip around Frank’s wrists. He let out an involuntary whimper.

“You cold, Baby?” X whispered, sickly sweet. Frank fought not to scowl. X _knew_ he was cold, it was fucking freezing down here and anyone could feel it. It didn't matter, though, because no matter what he did or said, he’d never be granted any comfort. He would never be able to leave. Frank brought his gaze up and stared at X’s nose with a practiced blank expression. He wouldn’t look into those eyes. This wouldn't buy him much time, but the pain was always better later than sooner.

Surprisingly, no pain came. X stepped back slightly and dropped Frank’s wrists, which Frank instantly cradled to his chest. The fresh wounds and bruises on his wrists from rough restraints always made X’s grip ache and burn. The man knew this, of course. Still, he was granting Frank a reprieve. Some days, he’d just grip Frank’s wrists tighter and tighter until he cried. Today, evidently, was not one of those days. Frank sighed as he rolled his wrists and heard his joints crack. He was so tired.

X stepped back in and wrapped his arms around Frank, one hand snaking down further and further until it was slipping under the waistband of Frank’s pants. Frank tensed up, waiting, but X just squeezed his bare ass. Frank shuddered.

“Oh no, not tonight, sweetheart,” X drawled. “We’ve gotta keep you nice and tight for _tomorrow_.”

Frank looked up in horror. He didn't like the way X made _tomorrow_ sound so important. Anything important to X meant money, and money meant pain for Frank.

“Don't worry, Baby,” X soothed. He pointed the camera down a bit and placed his hands around Frank’s throat, pushing down ever so slightly. Frank swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple bob and click under X’s fingers.

“Look into the camera, you little slut. Show us your pretty eyes.” When Frank didn't comply right away, the hands around his throat tightened. X’s fingertips were pushing into fresh bruises, and Frank jerked up his head in pain. He stared into the camera, and his wide, terrified eyes were reflected back at him, his face grotesquely distorted by the lens.

“Yeah, be a good bitch,” X said as he grabbed Frank’s ass with both hands. He pulled Frank’s hips forward, forcing them to grind into his, and let out a sickening moan. Frank felt like he might throw up.

When he was hard, X moved his hands from Frank’s ass to his shoulders.

“Down,” he said firmly, pushing down on his shoulders with the suggestion that if Frank refused, he would be forced down.

Frank knelt obediently and switched his brain into autopilot. This, he could do. _This is fine_ , he thought. _It could be so much worse. This is my break._

He was still repeating this in his head over and over as he unzipped X’s pants and took his length into his mouth. X gripped Frank’s head and shoved him down, causing him to gag, and let out a hum of satisfaction before beginning to relentlessly fuck Frank’s mouth. Frank snapped his eyes shut and watched tiny yellow dots swim behind his eyelids as nausea coursed over him in waves. His throat muscles burned like fire, already torn up and damaged from previous fucks, previous men, and his jaw ached and clicked. He couldn't help the tears that silently dragged down his face as X thrust deeper, deeper, and Frank felt the tip of the man’s dick painfully forcing open his trachea.

“Yes, show me those precious tears,” X whispered. Frank squeezed his eyes shut tighter in an effort to stop crying and a few more tears fell. X made a filthy cooing sound. Frank couldn't breathe at all because his nose was clogged with snot from his perpetual cold. He felt panic flood his veins as he started to feel faint, not enough oxygen getting to his head, but X just pulled his hair and growled, thrusting in again.

Just as Frank felt himself begin to slip unconscious, X came down his throat, long and hard. Frank blinked rapidly and sputtered and gagged, trying to clear his air pipes of the burning bitterness. He felt disoriented and unreal, like a corpse, or a doll.

“Swallow,” X said breathily. It didn't sound like much of a command, but Frank knew that any word out of X’s mouth was binding. The thought of what X might do if he didn't comply terrified him more than anything. He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed it all as X pulled away with an explicit-sounding pop. Frank sunk back on his knees, breathing heavily, and let his head drop back. He studied the mold on the ceiling just as X stood and studied him. X zipped himself up and clicked the camera off, returning the SD card to his back pocket. The man said nothing until a few moments later when Frank’s stomach let out another loud growl. Frank instinctively shrunk back and curled in on himself, waiting to be struck. X simply crouched beside him and ruffled his greasy hair.

“You’re hungry,” he said. In the past, Frank might've responded with “No shit.” Instead, he just nodded fervently. His stomach snarled again and he clutched it, waiting for the pain to stop. X clicked his tongue.

“Well, I can't give you anything now, but how about this?” he said, offering Frank a water bottle that he produced from God knows where. Frank took it with shaking hands and easily unscrewed the cap, feeling his stomach twist when he realized it had been tampered with. Swallowing his fear he drank it down thirstily, trying not to think about how it was almost definitely drugged. Yeah, he had the sink, but bottled water was clean and pure and soft going down his wrecked throat. It was a luxury. Even if it was drugged, any gift from X was a luxury. He handed the empty bottle back to X with a look of thanks.

“You're very welcome,” X said grandiosely, giving him a wide, fake grin. His teeth were white and straight and perfect. Frank looked at his slicked back hair and his crisp white collared shirt and wondered not for the first time who X was outside of the basement. He wondered what his boss at work would think if he found out his favorite employee was a sick fuck who ran a sex ring through a kidnapped kid in his basement. Maybe his boss was a regular here. It wouldn't be surprising. They all dressed the same: pressed collared shirts, black or gray slacks, those shiny black shoes that clicked on the concrete floor. Like some kind of uniform.

“Don't fret, sweet,” X said in his fake-nice voice as he took the plastic bottle and straightened. “If you're _good_ tomorrow, I’ll give you something to eat. How’s that sound?”

Frank nodded again and looked X in the eyes, to show he really meant it, but he had to look away after a millisecond. The eyes were blue and cold and terrifying. Those eyes were in his worst nightmares, his terrors. He tried to give a small smile but only a corner of his mouth gave a faint twitch. His smiling was broken too, just like the rest of him.

Once X had ascended the stairs and clicked the locks shut in the basement door, Frank got to his feet and swayed unsteadily for a moment before making his way back into his floor corner. The drugs in the water were working already, but not fast enough. He settled down dizzily, pulling his sweatshirt over his knees and curling into a ball on his side. His stomach was pulsing now, he was so empty he could feel his heart beating in there. The pain gnawed at his insides and he let out a whimper, which only made him feel even more pathetic. A sob escaped his throat and he automatically clasped a hand over his mouth before remembering that no one could hear him now. He was all alone.

His body was slowing down, his limbs heavy and useless, but his mind was still working in overdrive. He felt dirtier than he'd ever felt for looking forward to tomorrow. He told himself that it was just because of the food. If he was _good_ , he'd get food, he was just waiting for this pain to end, but the X in his head told him he was just a cock-hungry whore, waiting to be fucked. No normal person looked forward to being raped. He curled up tighter and sobbed, which made his stomach hurt even more. God, he was disgusting. He had to get out of here, he had to fucking get out. He let the tears flow freely and tried to relax his chest as best he could as he finally slipped into a dreamless sleep.

( ) ( ) ( )

Frank awoke to the sound of thumping around upstairs. His stomach pain came back in full force, and he moaned and clutched himself despairingly. He was hoping that the drugs would've knocked him out for the entire day, so he wouldn't have to deal with the pain for hours while waiting for night. He stretched painfully, his muscles sore from the relaxers. He didn't fall asleep on his own anymore, so he was _put_ to sleep instead. It was a wonder how he could sleep so deeply yet never feel rested at all.

Dread fell over him like an icy blanket as he remembered that X was planning something big for tonight, but the promise of food kept him awake. He let out a shuddering sigh and sat up to hug himself tighter, trying to ignore the way the room tilted and spun as he shifted upright. He felt so sick, but there was nothing left to throw up. He was prepared to do _anything_ for food, and even worse things for _hot_ food. His stomach gurgled painfully and he fought the urge not to cry.

It was even colder than last night, which told him it was early morning. He imagined the frost on the grass outside, concentrating hard to remember what it looked like. There hadn't been any frost on the grass by the sidewalk the day he was taken; any details of the outside world besides memories of that day seemed blurry now. If he was counting the seasons correctly, it had been just over a year since that day.

A whole fucking year. He didn't want to be correct. And then he was fighting back tears again, because thinking about how long he’d been in this basement just made him remember all he used to have. He remembered his friends, his family, his home, his guitar, his shitty high school. He would give up anything if it meant having that again, but he knew no one was even looking for him at all. Not even his loved ones loved him enough to look for him when he was wiped off the map one day. No one cared. He wiped his eyes and cursed softly, but it came out more like a wheeze through his wrecked vocal chords. He was such an idiot. He cried over everything now, sometimes over nothing at all. He couldn't even talk anymore, just cry or scream. He wished it was still like those first couple weeks, when he still believed he would be rescued, still had some hope, some fight in him. Now, there was no point in living, so there was no point in fighting. Everyone thought he was dead, and he kind of wished he was. Without a means of escape, his existence was meaningless.

Suddenly, the wooden door at the top of the stairs banged open and Frank started with a jolt. Someone thumped purposefully down the stairs. Frank would know those footsteps anywhere, and he felt himself already start to shake. _He_ never came down here this early. The morning was supposed to be Frank’s time. At least, he thought it was morning. His heart was pounding all over, in his chest, his stomach, his throat, his fingertips.

X stood at the foot of the stairs, drumming his fingers against his arm and looking confused.

“Maybe you’re still asleep,” he mused quietly, looking around the room curiously.

Frank’s blood ran cold. He had heard X coming down the stairs and hadn't been kneeling there to greet him. There was no point in hiding now, or pretending to be asleep. X would know. X always knew, he thought as he heaved himself to his feet and forced himself to stumble over to where X was waiting. As soon as the man saw him, a nasty scowl twisted his features. Frank shrunk back, but X reached out and grabbed him by the shirtfront, pulling him close.

“There you are, you little slut,” he growled. “Too good to say ‘good morning’ to me now, huh, bitch?”

Frank just trembled in X’s grip, petrified with fear. He’d never had to say “good morning” to X before. X stomped on his foot, hard, and he let out a whimper of pain.

“I said, are you still too good to say ‘good morning?’” X tightened his grip and pressed down on Frank’s foot harder, grabbing the boy’s wrist with this other hand.

Frank shook his head.

“Say it then!”

Frank just kept shaking his head. He was too scared, too cold, too hungry to think straight, let alone try to speak.

X waited for a few beats before taking a step away, still keeping a vicelike grip on Frank’s wrist. Even his grip wasn't enough to keep Frank from shaking; X’s arm was trembling with the effort of trying to keep him still. Frank was shaking so much he couldn't even move without jolting.

“Still not gonna talk to me? You used to have such a pretty voice,” he murmured. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way, you ungrateful fag.”

Frank didn't even have time to flinch away before he felt a stinging pain on his cheek. He felt X’s hand in his hair and let out a gasp of pain, but then he felt his body being dragged along and he knew it was over. He let himself go limp, let the air get knocked out of his lungs as the was dropped haphazardly onto the mattress.

It was when X put his fingers in his mouth and whistled that Frank realized they weren't alone.

His breath quickened and his vision swam as he struggled to get himself upright, but X simply sat on his chest, pinning the frail boy down. The footfalls of many men on the creaky wooden stairs were as irregular as the beating of Frank’s heart in his ears. He struggled and squirmed, but he was too weak to even budge the man on his chest. He started hyperventilating and gripped his own hair, feeling his eyes start to water. X slapped him again.

“Fucking pathetic whore,” he heard X mutter. “Be good.”

Frank bit his tongue to keep from making any more noise as he looked up to the four men towering over the mattress. All five men, including X, were wearing thick wool overcoats, their breath ghosting out faintly in front of them. No, he wasn't crazy, _yes,_ it was cold down here. Two of them he recognized—a control freak and a rough one—and two he did not. He shuddered. It had been forever, yet X still found new men to bring in, new men who were begging to get their hands on him. The world was full of cruel people, Frank had learned. Cruel, sick people.

One of the men who Frank recognized leant down on his knees a bit. This was the control freak. He monitored the fear that flickered in Frank’s eyes and gave him a slippery grin.

“Hey, little guy. Remember me, eh?”

Frank nodded. The man pursed his lips.

“What’s my name?”

Frank swallowed and shakily held up three fingers. The man’s name was Three. Once they’d run out of letters to use, they'd started using numbers. This one was Three, he was sure.

The man nodded. “Yes, that's right,” he mused. He then stood up and brought the heel of his shiny black shoe down hard on Frank’s fingers. Frank let out a scream of agony as several pops and cracks were heard and he saw the man farthest from him visibly cringe. Tears silently leaked from his eyes as he cradled his hand against his throat. His tongue was still firmly pressed between his teeth, but his hand was pulsing with pain and his breaths were coming out raspy and whiny already. God, he couldn't help it, he couldn't fucking help it.

“SHUT UP!” X screamed. Frank’s body jerked violently when the man raised his voice and one of the men standing above them chuckled. X dug an elbow into Frank’s groin and another whine escaped from the boy’s throat. He saw Three shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. The other men were just standing there, saying nothing. Doing nothing.

“Still won’t talk, huh?” Three said to X.

“No. Little bitch hasn't said a fucking word since fuck knows when. Probably April, during that shit with Nineteen. ‘N that was the first time in a long time since before that, too.”

Frank stared up at the ceiling above the mattress, where there were still stains from where Nineteen’s brain had hit it. Nineteen had been a little bit too sadistic for X’s liking. He had gotten angry and sliced up Frank’s back and chest with a pocketknife. X had shot him dead, right there, on top of Frank. That was the only time X had ever taken Frank to the hospital. He remembered looking up at X from the hospital bed and saying “Thank you.” He remembered how badly he wanted to take it back when the first person who fucked him when he got back to the basement was the male nurse from Room 3B.

Frank felt the tightness in his throat build up even more. They didn't get it; he couldn't talk. If he could, for the love of fuck, he _would_ , but he was broken. His talking was broken, and they had taken it away. Even if his throat was fixed, he knew he still wouldn't be able to speak. _They_ couldn't bring his voice back. He wasn't sure anyone could.

“Hmm,” Three sounded thoughtful. Frank hated it. “So you wanna teach him? To show you some...verbal respect?”

X nodded. “That's the plan.”

He made sure Frank was watching, then twisted around and pointed at the unidentified men.

“Introduce yourselves,” he said. His voice was laced with anger. Frank hadn't been this scared since he was first brought here.

“Hey Snow White, I'm Thirty-Four,” the first man said, cracking his knuckles. His was thin and wiry, not very strong-looking, but his fingers were long. Frank shuddered.

“J,” the next man stated gruffly. This one was familiar. He was taller than the other men, almost taller than X, and burly. He had thick black hair on his knuckles and on the backs of his hands. He could break Frank’s arm like a toothpick; Frank knew because he’d done it in August.

“Thirty-Five,” the last man said. He was a little chubby and had short dirty-blond hair. He sounded more hesitant than the others. Frank hoped this meant he would be closer to dealing with three men rather than four or potentially five, if X decided to join in.

“And of course you know me,” Three crooned, twitching three crooked fingers in the air mockingly. He crouched down again, cradling Frank’s face and rubbing his cheek with a rough thumb. “So soft,” he mumbled. Frank involuntarily scrunched his face up and the hand slapped him sharply.

“Let’s not be rude, now,” Three said, digging into his pocket and replacing his thumb on Frank’s cheek with the edge of his switchblade. Frank sucked in a sharp breath and bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

“Easy,” X warned. “Don't hurt him.”

Frank could've laughed, if he wasn't about to cry instead.

Three nodded but did not move the blade. X opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by another voice.

“Um, excuse me, sir, but how old is he?” Thirty-Five piped up.

X stared at him, not liking to be interrupted, then thought on the answer for a moment. All that could be heard was Frank’s uneven, quick breaths, labored with the effort of not making a sound, and his wet sniffles. Thirty-Five shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

“It just turned seventeen in October,” X said finally. Frank let a sob escape him, but thankfully X ignored it. X only called him “it” when he was very angry. It served well to remind him of how worthless he was. Thirty-Five scrunched up his nose at X’s choice of words but ignored it and continued.

“But he's so...small,” he finished awkwardly, looking the Frank up and down. The kid looked so tiny and fragile, no older than thirteen or fourteen. “Do you even fucking feed him?”

 _No!_ Frank wanted to scream. The way Thirty-Five was looking at his body made him want to die. The man looked so mundanely disappointed, like the ice cream parlor was out of his favorite flavor. He obviously had been expecting something better.

“Enough,” X barked, and the man fell silent. “Of course I _feed_ him, you idiot.”

X got up off of Frank and stood above him, looking at him witheringly as he tugged Frank’s arms over his head and tightened the rope restraints at the corners of the mattress around his battered wrists. Frank’s broken hand sent searing pain down his arm and he sobbed again. He knew there was no point in trying to run now. It was five against one.

“This is how it's going to work,” he addressed Frank coldly, without looking at him. “These men will do whatever they wish with you. They will stop when you feel civil enough to speak to me like a _normal person_. We’ll see how well they did when I get home from work tonight.”

Frank sniffed and tried to tell himself it wasn't a lie. This could be over quickly if he wanted it to be.

“Alright, pay up,” X said, turning to the men. Frank watched the money passing between hands for the first three men. Instead of money, Thirty-Five handed X a small baggie with a twist tie on the end of it.

“Outta balloons, but it's still the good stuff,” he whispered. X nodded.

“Gotta head to work. Have fun, boys,” he called darkly as he ascended the stairs. The door slammed shut, and the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered. The heavy silence that followed smelled like mildew and cigarettes. J had just lit one.

“And here we go,” Three said gleefully as he watched Thirty-Four descend to the edge of the mattress and begin to tug Frank’s loose jeans down. He wasn't wearing underwear. Once Frank was bare, the man forced his legs up and open, his long, spidery fingers wrapping almost all the way around Frank’s thighs. It was when he felt two of those spidery fingers against his hole that he broke down.

“I-I-I c-can t-t-talk,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. It was so quiet that he almost missed it himself.

“What was that, ‘Baby?’” Three said, using X’s favorite false term of endearment. He was flipping the switchblade in and out, in and out. “I didn't quite catch that.”

Thirty-Four slid his fingers all the way in.

“I-I-I-I c-c-can t-talk!” Frank screamed in pain. His voice was so ugly; it was gravelly and mucousy and it cracked like a nail against a rusty pipe. Thirty-Four had paused, fingers still inside. Frank had his eyes squeezed shut but he felt Three stand up beside him. His throat hurt.

“So you can,” Three said, sounding mildly amused. “But I don't think th-th-th-this i-i-i-is h-h-h-how a-a-a n-n-n-normal p-p-p-person t-t-t-talks,” he enunciated maliciously.

“What the fuck was all that X was saying about this kid’s ‘beautiful voice?’ Jesus _Christ_ ,” Thirty-Five muttered. “Poor bastard sounds like a fuckin’...a fuckin’ toad.” He sounded pitying, not mean, but his words still hurt. Thirty-Four curled his fingers.

"P-please, s-stop," he whimpered. Someone laughed.

Frank felt a sudden presence above him and opened his eyes to see J straddling his torso, immobilizing him between his muscled thighs like a cage of flesh. Frank’s blood ran cold. The man unzipped himself and turned to Three.

“I didn't pay three hundred for nothin’. This kid’s way better at head than my wife and X knows it.” Three nodded knowingly at this, as if he too had had sexual experiences with J's wife.

J looked down at Frank and thrust himself at his face.

“Open up.”

Three turned a mock sympathetic gaze to Frank and pouted his lip.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “Money talks way louder than a stutter.”

Thirty-Four had begun to thrust his dry fingers in and out, and Frank felt the wetness of blood dripping down his ass and seeping into the mattress. He was almost glad he was bleeding; it made the passage easier. J leaned down so that his face was almost touching Frank’s and grabbed his jaw. He took his cigarette out of his mouth and pressed the butt into the side of Frank’s neck. The boy hissed.

“Open your mouth, faggot.”

Frank blinked the tears out of his eyes and looked at J, really _looked_ at him for the first time. A sudden fire burned in his chest. X was starving him to death, was letting these four men rape him until whenever the fuck they wanted, and was just looking for excuses to call him “bad” and deny him food, _again_. He’d _been_ good, and it hadn't meant shit. His left hand was fucking broken and the man who had broken his _arm_ a few months ago was shoving his dick against Frank’s teeth. He wrinkled his nose; it smelled terrible. He was done being good. It didn't fucking matter.

Without warning, he convulsed, bucking J backward and jostling Thirty-Four’s fingers out. He glared at J.

X wanted him to talk? He would fucking talk.

“N-No.”

J’s eyes widened.

“Excuse me?”

Frank’s body was on fire. “I-I s-said, _no_.”

Three, obviously getting off on this power play, unzipped himself and started to jack off.

“You ungrateful whore,” J growled, tightening his grip around Frank with his thighs so he couldn't be thrown off again. “You know what happens when you fuck with me.” Cold fear ran through Frank’s veins, but it couldn't smother the fire he felt burning in his lungs and his stomach.

J grabbed the hollows of Frank’s tender jaw and squeezed hard until his mouth popped open, then shoved himself inside.

“Suck,” he ordered gruffly.

Once he was done gagging, Frank complied for a minute, biding his time and waiting for more blood to rush to the other man’s member. His throat muscles felt like they might be bruising. He really wished that more guys with long fingers like Thirty-Four were nail-biters.

Thirty-Four slid himself in, and Frank bit down on J’s hard dick.

“FUCK!! Bitch! Mother _fucker_!” J roared. He tried to pull out, but Frank bit down harder, grinding it in his teeth until he tasted blood. J screamed bloody murder. Thirty-Five looked absolutely horrified. Above them, Three sped up his pace.

“Holy shit dude, you okay?” Thirty-Four had stopped again.

J finally ripped his dick free from Frank’s mouth and let out an animalistic growl.

“Keep. Fucking. Him.” he bit out tersely. He was cradling his wounded penis like a baby. It was actually pretty funny. If he wasn't so terrified, Frank would've laughed.

“You little _shit_ ,” he growled, ripping Frank’s broken hand from its restraint before picking up Frank’s head with both hands and slamming the side of it against the concrete wall. Black spots and white bursts flooded Frank’s vision, and this time he really did laugh, because holy shit, he just bit a guy’s dick. He had waited over a year to bite one of these fucker’s cocks, and now he was paying for it. He was going to die. A haze fell over him as his mind disassociated from the situation, his body going limp. Frank was speaking again, he felt the words burning in his throat, but he wasn't sure what he was saying anymore, his brain disconnected from his mouth in a way that felt almost dreamlike. Whatever he was saying, it must've been pretty fucked up; all four men were looking at him with expressions of horror. Even J had a glint of fear in his eyes. The rough hands gripped his skull tighter. Thirty-Four rammed into his ass again and Frank heard himself let out a manic laugh so high and loud he felt it resonate in his ribs.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?!” J screamed.

He punched Frank square in the face, and Frank felt blood from his nose gush back into his throat. He swallowed it into his empty stomach and gagged. Frank opened his eyes wide, too wide. J’s face was inches from his own, but Frank didn't see him. He suddenly wasn't afraid at all, or maybe he was so scared it somehow made him fearless. He smiled bigger than he ever had in this hellhole and felt his jaw click and pop, faulty from countless blowjobs and ball gags. It felt terrible to smile.

“I-I-If y-you k-k-kill m-me,” his voice rasped, unheeded, “I’m-m n-never g-gonna s-s-suck y-your c-c-cock ag-gain.”

“GOOD! FUCKING—JESUS CHRIST, _GOOD_!”

His head slammed against the wall again and Frank saw stars. Thirty-Four came in his ass. His heart felt like a hummingbird in his chest. Everything was suddenly louder: skin against skin, the creaky box springs in the mattress, the shifting of fabric, the moaning of the pipes, the thumping of his heart in his ears. The _drip, drip, drip, drip, drip_. His eyes rolled back into his skull.

He felt J’s huge hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't fucking breathe.

Three stood and ejaculated all over them.

Frank threw up, and everything went black.

( ) ( ) ( )

“Holy shit, dude, _stop_. STOP!”

“Is he…”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“What.”

“Holy. Motherfucking. _Shit_.”

“What?!”

“You fucking killed him.”

“Oh, are you sure? What a shame, he was such a fun little guy.”

“Shut the fuck up, you voyeuristic freak.”

“...Bitch was asking for it.”

“You _killed_ him! Do you know what Lagucci is gonna do to us? Remember what he did to Nine—to Henkeman?”

“You—You were a witness, you're just as guilty as any of us.”

“Well _I_ didn't do shit, I was just fucking h-”

“You have your _dick_ inside a dead _kid_! That doesn't bother you at _all_?!”

“...A little bit.”

“Listen, you wouldn't be screaming at me if your manhood felt like it was put through a fuckin’ meat grinder. You would've done the same, get off your goddamn high horse.”

“Just get your junk off his throat at least, Jesus Christ, why are you still _on_ him?”

“You sure he's dead?”

“...Yeah. Not breathing.”

“Wait. Hold up. Roll him over.”

“What?”

“Take his other wrist out of the cuffs and roll him on his side! Come on, for Christ’s sake, Jensen!”

“…Augh! That's fucking disgusting.”

“O-Oh God…”

“Let’s—Let’s get out of here.”

“We're just gonna _leave_ him?”

“Yeah. This is...it’s Lagucci’s fuckin’ problem.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Frank woke up on his side, with vomit in his nose and blood in his mouth.

He coughed violently, feeling something wet dislodge in his chest, and leant up on his elbow to vomit again, this time onto the mattress and not down his own throat. His throat felt so positively wrecked, sore from screaming and J’s cock and his own stomach acid, that he was sure he’d never make a noise again. His nose started bleeding again, but it still felt completely clogged up. He breathed raggedly through his mouth, numbly watching drool drip from his parted lips. His entire face felt wet, though he was unsure with what. Someone had taken him out of the restraints, at least. He laid back down gently in the same exact spot, resting his head in the vomit but too exhausted to care. His throat burned fiercely and he let out a guttural moan that turned into a sob, it hurt so much. He was too dizzy to look around the room, but it was silent—the men had left early. His whole body trembled. What had those men _done_?

His head fucking killed, and he felt sick and dizzy. _Concussion_ , he immediately thought. He remembered J slamming it against the wall and felt his stomach drop as he looked at the wall beside him and saw dried blood. His throat felt constricted, and his nausea was making him salivate, but every time he swallowed a sharp pain clicked in his throat. Fuck, J must have strangled him too. His left hand was still pulsing painfully, as was his nose. Both were broken, he decided. His entire lower half was bare and covered in goosebumps, and his hole felt used and sore and wet; he knew he would have to clean himself off later, feeling sick at the prospect of using the freezing toilet water. Upon realizing how cold he still was, he curled into the fetal position and hugged himself, crying out from the pain in his ass. His stomach still throbbed from hunger, but the pain there was dulled by the sharper pain in the rest of his body.

He’d been left in much better condition before, but he’d also been left worse. (He thought back to Nineteen.) In this moment though, this was the worst he’d ever felt. He felt the dirty mattress damp under his cheek and let himself cry softly, restrained and whimpering. Deep down he knew he didn’t deserve this, but maybe if it was happening, he really did. If whatever higher power that presided over humanity hated him this much, maybe he really did deserve this pain. He let out a despairing sigh and listened to the normal sounds: the cracking and settling of the floorboards above, the groan of the heater upstairs whose warmth he never felt, the faint noise of a dog barking outside.

A dog barking outside.

 _Outside_.

Frank felt his heart speed up and blood rush to his head. He rolled over onto his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for a wave of nausea to roll past him. He propped himself up with weak, shaking arms and jerked upward, again and again and again, getting onto his knees after several attempts and screamed silently in pain as he did so. He heard his terrified, breathy pants in his ears and stood up with a great deal of effort, waiting for the dizziness to subside before pulling on his jeans and cautiously making his way to the base of the stairs. He never heard outside noises down here, the place was like a bunker. Which could only mean…

He looked up. The door was open a crack.

Frank felt so dizzy he thought he might vomit again.

He slowly, _very_ slowly, climbed the stairs, wincing whenever they creaked beneath him. His limbs were shaking almost out of control, not from fear this time, but from weakness and pain and anticipation. Getting to the top felt like a big accomplishment, after stumbling countless times and almost falling down the whole flight twice. He pushed the door open gently, watching it swing away from his hand.

This didn't feel real. This couldn't be real.

The basement, he realized, was actually not far from the front door of the house. The foyer had a lofty, high ceiling and a fake wooden floor, but it was far warmer than the frigid basement. A bathroom door across the hall was left ajar and Frank slipped silently inside, breathing heavily against his tears. He had no way of knowing if he was really alone in the house.

It had been a year since he’d seen his own face, but it felt like an eternity had gone by. Frank wasn't really sure what he looked like anymore. He remembered the instant look of disappointment on that man’s face when he'd seen him, and Frank knew this was probably not the best time to find out, when he was shaking and weak and hurting all over. He took a deep breath and stepped into view of the mirror.

The first thing he had to get past was the blood. He was totally covered in it, most of it concentrated around his nose and mouth, but it was somehow also smeared all over his face. Tear tracks, some dry and some fresh, cut through the blood on his face like tiny rivers. His chin was covered in what looked like dry semen and wet vomit. He nearly gagged again. Quickly flipping on the sink, he scrubbed at his face manically with his uninjured hand, using warm water and soap to wash and sighing at how much he’d missed these simple fucking things. Warm water. Fucking _soap_. He rubbed his face with his bitten nail tips until it stung.

Once had cleaned off the fluids he was messed with, though, he took in how much he’d really changed. He looked older—though he appeared to not have grown taller at all (and perhaps had even gotten smaller), his face looked harder, and he had a little scruff on his jaw since X hadn't shaved him in a while. Faint, thin scars were visible on his face, old and faded white across the bridge of his nose, on his left cheek, on his chin, under his eyebrow. His hair was long and tangled, a little bit past his shoulders, and it framed his face like a dark, straggly halo. The right side was matted with blood, the left with vomit. He wrinkled his nose and winced in pain. He considered his face for a moment before reaching up and cracking his broken nose back into place, cringing as fresh blood flowed again. He just let it drip down his face, blossoms of red expanding on his already-bloodstained sweater. It had to stop eventually.

Frank realized how skinny he’d become compared to how healthy he’d been before he was kidnapped, tilting his head to look at his sharp jaw and jutting cheekbones. He lifted his sweatshirt and looked at his hollow-looking stomach in the mirror as he traced his fingers down his protruding ribs. He stared numbly at his torso, momentarily taken aback by all the knife scars that covered it from the Nineteen incident and the way it was littered with cigarette burns, a practice encouraged by X to teach discipline, or more often in Frank’s experience, for sadistic pleasure. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he looked at the angry purple scars. Disgusting. Hideous. He dropped his shirt and bit his tongue to keep from crying again. He was so pale he was almost white, his skin a disturbing chalky color from lack of sunlight, or any light, really. He was sure the nausea and blood loss was making him ashier. The shadows under his eyes were darker than he’d ever seen on anyone, and paired with his thinness and pallid skin, he looked a bit skeletal.

His chest felt tight, now that he was faced with the physical evidence that all this had really happened to him. He had really been kidnapped right off the street, he had really been used as a sex doll, trapped in some guy’s basement. Over a year of torture and isolation had really passed, and he was nothing more than a statistic. He swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed his face into the soft hand towel, allowing a few tears to leak out, and tried to breathe evenly. He had to control himself, at least until he escaped. He pulled back and stared at his crooked, tiny mouth in the mirror, focusing on not letting any more tears fall down his face.

Escape.

One eye looked purple and green underneath, and was swollen up already. He could see purple and red bruises forming on his throat and touched it as he suddenly felt J’s hands gripping his neck again, squeezing, choking. He closed his eyes and tried to scream, clawing at his throat feebly and waiting for it to pass. The burn on the side of his neck stung. He coughed and tried to make a sound again, but no sound came out of his throat at all except a forced, choked breath. He physically could not make a sound. It was terrifying. God, he was fucked up. He leant dizzily against the wall, head in his hands. Fucked up. That was to be expected, he guessed.

 _Escape_.

He cleaned himself up a bit more, purposely avoiding his own gaze in the mirror as he rinsed and dried his hair, threw up acid again into the toilet, and slipped back out into the foyer. The front door loomed before him like a sentinel. It stupidly reminded him of how it felt to finish a video game; this was the final destination. He looked all around him quickly and listened hard once more to make sure he was alone, then fumbled with the deadbolt and yanked the door open with trembling hands.

He took a shaky step outside and slammed the door shut behind him. A flurry of snow blew into his face. A icy bead of water dripped from his hair and down his neck. He squinted at his first glimpse of natural light since he was fifteen years old and gasped a cold mouthful of snow into his lungs. It felt like an invitation.

He was free.

So, he ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really does get better, I promise! :(
> 
> Summary for those who decided to skip: Seventeen-year-old Frank was kidnapped just over a year ago by a sinister man only referred to as X, who keeps Frank trapped in his basement with no means of escape. X violates Frank, and it is implied that this is a regular occurrence. X then later rents him out to four other men who he hopes will teach the otherwise-mute Frank to learn his place and speak again. Frank fights back and gets beaten unconscious by a man known as J who has also hurt him in the past. The men believe that Frank is dead and flee. Frank wakes and, upon finding that the door is unlocked, escapes. 
> 
> Feel free to leave feedback or questions! I will answer to the best of my ability. <3


	2. Lost and Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A moment that can't come soon enough.

When Frank woke up, he played dead. Maybe if he didn't open his eyes, he could pretend he was still outside, running away from this place. But the fact was, he was not lying in the snow. He was lying on two rusty box springs that dug into his shoulder blades. He was listening to the moaning of the pipes and the dripping of the sink.

He couldn't remember blacking out, but one thing he knew he was running to his freedom, and the next he was waking up back in the same hellhole he'd been trapped in for what seemed like forever. He felt X’s presence in the room like an omen. He was just sitting there, watching, waiting for Frank to wake up. Frank didn't plan on “waking up” anytime soon. He tried to keep his body perfectly still and his breathing slow and steady.

The thing was, Frank had a problem with shaking.

“Hey, Baby.”

Frank tensed, all of his muscles going taught like thick rope being tugged on by a giant, docking ship. He could feel the waves making him dizzy already.

“ _Stop it._ ” X’s voice snapped. It sounded far away and too loud at the same time. “I know you're awake.”

_Shit._

He tried to move, but when he opened his eyes and looked at the brown spots of old blood on the ceiling, he lost all motivation. He had no energy. His body wouldn't move, it didn't even feel like he had one. His head was spinning and throbbing even more than before. His right eye was swollen completely shut. He felt lost.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, bitch.”

Frank cringed and slowly rolled over to face X, his body still aching yet somehow strangely numb, curling himself into a protective ball before squinting open his less swollen eye. X stood a couple feet away, his arms folded. From the ground, he looked like a giant.

“Sit up.” When Frank didn't move, he yelled.

“ _Now!_ ”

Frank gasped and struggled to sit up, the room lurching dangerously around him. The pain in his used and beaten body hit him once more like a brick wall, the disconnected feeling dropping away instantly, and it was all he could do not to cry again. God, it hurt so fucking much. He accidentally put weight on his broken hand and whimpered.

“Now, do you want to tell me why I came home from a long day at work to found you lying face down in my neighbor’s gutter?” X sounded exasperated. Angry. Frank flinched and kept his jaw clenched shut even though it hurt, listening to his heart beat faster in his chest. He’d only gotten down the street one house before he blacked out? He was so fucking useless. He couldn't even escape right, and that was all he wanted, more than anything.

“I thought you _liked_ it here.” X paused, as if thoughtful. “I thought you loved me?”

Frank’s whole body shook. X took a step forward and slipped off his belt.

“I thought you loved me?” he repeated. It sounded like a threat.

Frank nodded his head fearfully.

“Say it.”

Frank’s eyes widened and X just nodded at him impatiently. Frank wouldn't test him, especially not when he was holding that belt…

Frank couldn't make a sound past the lump in his throat. It was even worse than before, so much worse. He was rendered silent. X tightened his grip on the belt and Frank burst into tears, gripping his head and buried his head in his knees. He curled up and frantically mouthed things that might've been words, but his voice just wasn't working. His throat felt like it was ripping apart. His breath quickened dangerously and he knew if his eyes were open, his vision would be swimming. Frank felt X’s presence get closer, kneeling in front of him, and silently screamed louder in anticipation of the pain he knew was coming. He was already hurting so much. X reached out and awkwardly patted the top of Frank’s head. It was a hesitant, disgusted touch; his hair was greasy and still damp from lying in the slush. Frank instinctively clung to the man when he was close enough, in shock and just seeking a warm body to comfort him. He could still feel J’s hands on his throat, in his hair, the cock tearing up his insides, the hands all over his body, _in_ his body. The _hands._

“Shh,” X said, too close to his ear. “Hey, Baby. It’s okay. Quiet now.” Frank shook his head and shuddered with the effort of another sob.

X clicked his tongue, not out of guilt but disappointment. Those fools had not only allowed his pet to escape, but they'd gone too far with it to boot. The kid was probably even less likely to talk now. He waited for the boy to calm down a bit before getting up and stepping back. X looked at Frank’s outstretched, grasping hands disdainfully. Frank withdrew them and hugged his middle, instantly disgusted with himself.

“I’ll be right back, Baby.”

Frank swallowed what felt like thick blood in his throat and nodded, looking down at the concrete floor. Everything here was concrete: the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Like a bunker, he thought again. He heard the heavy lock click behind X, who didn't trust him alone for a second, even when Frank was in this state, practically immobile. No escape.

 _No way out,_ he thought. The more he repeated it to himself, the worse he felt. _No way out._ He looked down at his lap and expected tears to fall into his open palms, but the tears wouldn't come. He was too exhausted to even cry.

The first thing that registered in Frank’s mind when the door at the top of the stairs reopened was the smell of food. All other thoughts instantly became foggy, sluggish. He barely even heard X’s footsteps on the stairs, all he could think was _food, food, food._ Despite his persistent nausea, his stomach growled with hunger.

X appeared in front of him holding a plastic bag which was printed with large, blue letters and a smiley face. Frank stared at the bag, using the smells to visualize the food inside. His mouth watered so much and so suddenly that he had to swallow hard, his throat clicking pain all the way up to his ears. X did feed him to keep him alive, but it was usually just his own leftovers and scraps. Frank didn't think he'd had takeout since before the kidnapping, which felt like a lifetime ago. He would do anything for this. He cleared his throat painfully and looked up, but X wasn't looking at him. The man was staring at the fresh bloodstains on the wall, his expression unreadable. Frank took in a shaky breath and psyched himself up to get the man’s attention, praying that X wouldn't strike him for it. He leaned over and tapped the top of X’s shoe. When X looked down, Frank had to fight to hold his gaze.

“May I eat this?” Frank mouthed. He knew to ask—he had eaten once without asking permission and he’d received such a brutal punishment for it, he couldn't even think about eating by himself again. He could still feel the hot metal under his skin, in his skin…he shuddered. His hunger was temporarily suppressed with the effort of containing that awful memory.

X said nothing, simply setting down the bag on the floor beside the mattress. He gave Frank a meaningful look and walked away, leaving the large bag of food by Frank’s feet. Frank’s need for food was consuming him, and he knew what he had to do. He painfully cleared his throat and swallowed his pride.

“May I eat this, M-Master?” he added to his pantomime, exaggerating the last word on his lips. He looked down, shame tightening in his chest.

He heard X pause, physically _feeling_ the man’s sly grin without even seeing his face. He shuddered. Because he was unable to speak, he hadn't been able to call X what he wished to be called. Even without verbalizing it, the word felt so awful in Frank’s mouth that he almost threw up again. It reminded him of the first few weeks, when X had broken him. It had been the worst time of his life.

X slowly walked back down the stairs and stood in front of Frank, this time ruffling his hair thoroughly and without hesitation. Frank flinched away but X just kept running his fingers through his long hair, seemingly unaware that Frank anticipated pain at any moment.

“Of course, Baby.” There was something in X’s voice that sent a chill up Frank’s spine. Sure enough, when the man backed away, he didn't return upstairs, but settled down in the corner beside the stairs, watching Frank silently. Frank slowly and self-consciously tore the bag open and looked nervously at X, who just nodded at him as if for encouragement.

Frank picked up a container, and X was back across the room in an instant, hands squeezing on Frank’s battered wrists. Frank's throat let out a strangled sound and X gripped tighter.

“Flattery doesn't lead to forgiveness, pet,” he snarled. He grabbed the container from where Frank had dropped it and emptied its contents onto the filthy concrete floor. Frank felt sick as he watched X rub the noodles and slimy brown meat into the floor with his shoe. It suddenly didn't seem appetizing at all.

“Now eat,” X snipped. As Frank leant over to do so, X dug his heel into the back of Frank’s neck, shoving his face down into the dirty food.

Frank wept silently. And he ate like a dog.

Outside, the wind picked up and whistled eerily through the cracks of the small, cloudy window in the farthest corner of the ceiling. Frank wasn't sure what time it was, only that it was dark outside. What sounded like a mixture of sleet and rain began to splat against the window. X took his foot off of Frank’s neck, but it made Frank feel worse than before. That only meant that X had a plan to punish him even worse. He felt a hand in his hair and involuntarily jerked.

“Get the fuck up.” X pulled on his hair. Frank wanted the cold shoe back on his neck. He stood and every muscle in his body screamed in pain.

With a hand firmly twisted in Frank’s hair, X tugged him towards the stairs and started to force him up them. Frank’s stomach lurched. It was too bizarre, X was too furious; the man had never given him a chance to get out of this basement willingly, let alone led Frank out of it himself. Frank struggled feebly, but X simply twisted his hand in the boy’s hair tighter and shoved him again. Frank went limp. He was being punished. He knew better than to try to run away. Whatever was coming to him now, he was sure he deserved it.

“You want to be outside,” X growled in Frank’s ear. “ _Be_ outside.”

( ) ( ) ( )

Gerard was so fucking lost.

He rubbed his eyes and cursed to himself as he shone his headlights on the same smug-looking garden gnome that he'd passed by five times now. Fuck, he was just going in circles. He looked up blearily and the gnome stared back. It was totally mocking him.

Stupid Mikey. Stupid Mikey’s girlfriend’s parents, throwing a dinner party and not only inviting his parents along but _Gerard_ , of all people. A dinner party at their house which was evidently buried in the depths of a suburb that was just about as navigable as a Greek labyrinth. Gerard half-expected to stumble upon a minotaur any second now. He checked his watch and cursed again. He was an hour late. The weather wasn't helping either, the sleet so wet and thick that he couldn't even see the house numbers out his own car windows. With each passing minute, the sky seemed to get darker, the sleet heavier.

He rested his head on the steering wheel and started to sigh in defeat, but immediately startled when his horn beeped loudly—a sign to keep going. He huffed and rolled down his window to squint through the falling ice at the number of the house in front of him. _39._ He was about to continue down the street to find a street sign and try to continue with the shitty MapQuest directions that Mikey had printed out for him when he heard a sound cut through the rain.

He froze and listened closely, and the sound came again, quieter. It sounded like a dog whimpering, and the more he listened, the surer he felt. Some dickhead had left their dog out in this weather. Gerard wasn't really a dog person, but this didn't sit right with him. He could at least ring this guy’s doorbell and tell him to bring the poor thing inside. He braced himself and opened the car door, pushing out into the cold with his umbrella. Shivering a bit, he pulled his coat tighter and made his way towards the house.

Gerard’s ears took him around the house to the back of the small property. He cringed at the way his shoes squelched in the mud and freezing water seeped into his shoes, but he kept going. He had a dog to save. He finally arrived at a big oak tree in the back corner of the yard, isolated in the shadows and up against the fence which separated this yard from the neighbor’s. He couldn't help but think that if he hadn't heard the animal, nobody would've found it here. Gerard stopped at what seemed like the base of the tree, but it was hard to tell in the pitch blackness. Up close, something about the noises he was hearing made Gerard’s skin crawl. A horrible thought entered his head just as he heard a very distinct _sniffle,_ and his blood ran cold. He whipped his phone out of his pocket and slid it open, holding it with white knuckles as he shone the dim light of the screen on the ground in front of him.

At his feet, tied to the tree, there wasn't a dog. There was a _kid._

Gerard gasped and almost dropped his phone, and the kid seemed to hear him for the first time. He curled up even tighter, his small frame shaking so violently from the cold that it looked like he might shake apart. He wasn't wearing shoes, just striped socks that had holes in the toes. The poor kid didn't even have a coat. He was drenched.

Gerard floundered for a minute, unsure. His phone felt heavy in his unsteady hand. Should he call the police? He looked down at the shaking boy and then up at his umbrella, dripping with water and ice chunks. No, he needed to get this kid out of the freezing rain first. The way he was shaking made Gerard anxious; he probably had hypothermia, or something. There was no way of telling how long he'd been left out here.

Gerard crouched down and held his umbrella over the boy instead of himself, shuddering as a stream of icy water slid under his shirt and down his spine. He cleared his throat and tried to focus on what was in front of him. God, he couldn't believe this was happening. This wasn't real, this couldn't be real...

“Hey,” he said softly, but loud enough to be heard over the wind and rain. The kid instantly snapped his head up, and there was such an animal fear in his eyes that Gerard himself recoiled. Those eyes were wide and round and fucking terrified. This kid was more scared of him than Gerard had ever been scared of anything in his entire life.

“I-I'm not going to hurt you,” Gerard said, inching closer. “You can't be out here. It's—It’s not safe.”

Gerard glanced behind him anxiously. Whatever sick fuck had tied this kid up out here was probably in there right now, still awake. Though it was dark, the night was still young; if Gerard wanted to get this kid out of here, he needed to do it _fast._

He stood and examined the knotted rope. It was tied around the kid’s neck, and Gerard gasped when he realized it had been sloppily tied into a noose. No wonder the kid wasn't trying to escape; if he struggled he would strangle himself. Being left out here like this was plainly an option between a fast death or a slow one. The indecision he saw on the kid’s face made his gut twist.

He set down his umbrella so that it rested on the ground, still sheltering the kid, and dug his keys out of his pocket. Gerard frantically hacked at the rope with his house key, terrified. The next few minutes of trying to free this kid were the longest minutes of his life. Thankfully, the rope wasn't very thick to begin with, and after about ten minutes it was thin enough for Gerard to snap it. He staggered back, his knuckles burning from scraping against the rough twine and his fingertips cold and numb.

“Can you—Can you stand?”

The kid was unresponsive. Gerard felt his hands start to shake, cold fear setting in. He crouched down and carefully removed the severed rope from the boy’s neck. His eyes were closed, his face slack. His eerily pale features stood out faintly in the darkness, like a ghost. The wind howled and the branches of the tree whacked against one of the house’s upstairs windows.

“Please,” Gerard whispered. “Get up, wake up, I can't—I don't—”

The sleet was falling sideways now, Gerard’s umbrella rendered useless. The branches _whapped_ against the window louder, louder, louder.

“ _Please._ ” Gerard could feel his voice breaking in desperation. What was he going to do, what was he gonna fucking do—

The lights in the upstairs window turned on. Gerard felt his heart pumping fast in his fingertips, the blood in his ears drowning out every rational thought.

He picked up the kid and ran.

After slipping and falling face-first into the mud, and almost tripping right over the curb, Gerard finally made it back to his car. He haphazardly shoved the unconscious kid into the backseat, jumped into the driver's seat, and floored it.

Taking the back roads home was a nightmare. Every passing glance from another driver, every flashing turn signal, made him cringe away. They knew, he didn't know how, but somehow they looked at him and they _knew._ When he had to drive past a stationed police officer, he nearly had a heart attack.

It was only when he rolled into his own driveway and shut off his ignition that he allowed himself to relax, sinking into the temporary quiet. He sat in the artificial silence and listened to the ice drum down on the roof of his car. He focused on the rise and fall of his chest, the way his wet, muddy shirt stuck to his ribcage like plastic wrap. He turned around and looked at the kid, lying in an unnatural position across the back two seats. Gerard took off his coat and threw it over the boy before once again staring straight ahead into the glare of his own porchlight, lacking the energy to move. He tilted his head back and pretended he could see the stars through his car ceiling and the thick black clouds above them, and he knew only one thing.

He knew that he had no idea what he had just gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see more of this story, remember to leave kudos if you like it and extra feedback if you have questions or comments! Much love <3


	3. First Light

When Frank awoke, the first thing he noticed was how badly his body ached, especially in his head and his back and his hand. His eyelids felt leaden, so he just left them closed. Fuck…what the hell had happened last night? He couldn't quite remember.

The next thing he sensed was a strange, but very distinct feeling that something was odd. Off. He had woken up somewhere different, and absolutely not where he’d fallen asleep.

Suddenly, he remembered. The tree. He remembered being dragged _outside_ by his Master, X, his brain full of static. If he had fought, he would've surely been drowned out by the icy rain and the howling wind. He remembered being tied up by the neck in a place where certainly no one would find him. When he had tried to get away he’d almost strangled himself, and he had sat there and sobbed, positive that he was going to die in the cold--

But he was warm now, he was comfortable. This told him that something was very wrong.

Where the fuck was he?

Frank was wide awake now, his mind buzzing. He was lying in a bed, though it was definitely not the box spring in the basement. The mattress underneath him was plush, and there were soft sheets on it. Thick, warm blankets lay heavily on his body. Frank scrambled to sit up in the bed, wincing at his protesting muscles and the sharp pain in his side, and scanned his surroundings. The room he was in was relatively empty and obviously not used very often, with bare, pale blue walls and a clean carpet on the floor. Muted sunlight filtered in through a window adjacent to the bed, where the blinds had been drawn shut. Slowly, he eased himself out of the bed and limped over to the window, peeking through the blinds at a quiet suburban street--though not as remote as the street where X lived, he noted as he watched a car pass by. The mid-morning sun shone brightly in the sky, but the ground still looked wet and icy. He shivered.

Now that he was up, Frank realized how much his head really hurt, rubbing his temple with his good hand and wincing. He frowned when he realized he was still wearing the same filthy clothes he’d been wearing for a year. He hadn't been fully clean, much less had a proper shower, in what felt like forever. Being in this clean room made Frank feel even more disgusting, and he felt his throat tighten when he saw the faint dirty spots his clothes and hair had left on the white bedsheets. Whoever’s bed this was, they would _not_ like that, not one bit. When he shifted around, he shuddered. There was not much worse a sensation than waking up in _wet jeans._

He walked over to the door and tried the handle, and was shocked to find it was unlocked. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway of...wherever he was. He needed answers. As he padded across the hardwood floor, Frank noticed that his old socks had been removed, and he was now wearing different ones. They were bright orange, and warm and fuzzy. His previously filthy hoodie was also mysteriously dry and fresh-smelling, which meant that someone had taken it off him and washed it. Thankfully, it didn't appear that whoever had taken him had removed Frank’s shirt or touched any of his wet clothing below the belt, only the socks. He wondered why. Frank’s pondering was cut short by a voice filtering in from the next room. He froze, that voice jarring his memory.

Frank remembered the _man._

He cautiously peered around the corner and saw the man who had been trying to free him last night pacing around a small kitchenette, both hands in his hair and muttering curses under his breath. Frank sucked in his breath and held it. He wanted to go back to the room, but suddenly, his legs didn't work. He sunk to the ground against the wall, feeling helpless. The man’s curses hit his ears like tiny daggers. There was an unfamiliar, clearly irritated man only a few feet away, in every position to hurt him, and all Frank could do was _sit_ there. His hands started shaking and he bit his lip.

The man’s cell phone rang and he cursed loudly. Frank gasped, but luckily the man did not seem to hear it. Frank quickly sucked in another breath and listened closely. The phone’s speaker was not loud, but he could clearly hear the person on the other line yell “where the fuck were you last night?!” with enough volume and conviction that the man pulled the phone away from his ear. After a moment, he replaced it and let out a tired sigh.

“How ‘bout a ‘hello,’” he said wearily. He sounded exhausted, like his agitated muttering from a few seconds ago had just been an act. The voice on the other line became indistinct, and the man groaned at whatever he’d been told.

“Yeah yeah, I know, I'm the fuckin’ family disappointment. That’s old news, Mikes. Tell Mom ‘n Dad I said hi. I'm sure the pot roast that Alicia’s mom made was delicious. But I think I've got, uh...I’ve got bigger problems now.”

The voice on the other end made an indistinguishable snarky comment.

“No--No, fuck, I didn't skip out on you last night to get _hammered,_ Mikey, that's--”

The voice, “Mikey”, cut the man off. The phone made some indignant, accusing noises and the man huffed out a sharp breath. He leaned against the wall behind which Frank was hiding and Frank curled up tighter, terrified to move. Stress was coming off of the guy in waves.

“I was trying to get to the house and I got lost and I found a _kid,_ okay?” he spit out in one breath.

Frank bit his tongue and tasted blood behind his teeth. The line was silent.

( ) ( ) ( )

“A kid,” Mikey said finally.

“Y-yes. I found a kid sitting out in the--in the fucking hail.”

“Why.”

“What do you mean, _why?_ He was freezing out there!”

“Yeah, but why was he _out_ there in the first place, Gerard.” Mikey’s tone was unreadable. “You think every random kid needs your rescuing or something? And you still haven't explained how this warranted you missing the entire fucking dinner. You left me hanging, dude. With Alicia’s _parents._ ”

Gerard took in a deep breath and carded a hand through his hair. His brother was a pretty intuitive kid, but sometimes he could be so dense.

“He was tied up out there, Mikey. He was tied to a tree.” Gerard grabbed at his hair subconsciously, like he wanted to pull it out.

“By the neck,” he added.

There was another long pause. Gerard expected to hear the dial tone in his ear, any second.

“Mikey?”

“Oh,” was all he said.

“Yeah.”

“So you just...took him?”

“Well--I mean--what would _you_ have done?” Gerard could feel his voice getting higher in panic.

“You didn't call the police? You didn't take this kid to a hospital? You just _took_ him?” Mikey sounded incredulous.

Gerard was about to retort again but held his tongue. His brother was right; it had been a horrible idea to just bring the kid home. The poor kid could be seriously injured or sick and Gerard was just standing there feeling guilty. He felt the pressure building in his throat and couldn't stop the sniffle he let out. Mikey sighed into the phone and Gerard broke down, sinking against the wall.

“Fuck, Mikey, I know, it was so stupid, it was beyond stupid, but I didn't know what else to _do,_ ” he sobbed. “It was so fucking scary Mikes, I’m still fucking terrified and I still don't know what to fuckin’ do.”

“It’s okay, Gee,” Mikey quietly soothed. “You did a good thing.” He paused. “But you better not have just technically kidnapped a kid.”

Gerard sniffed and wiped his eyes. “If you saw him you'd understand.”

There was a pause.

“Is he injured?”

“I dunno...probably,” Gerard mumbled. “He had a lot of bruises on his knees and arms, but I don't know about the rest of him. Oh, and his face is kinda busted up. I didn't bathe him or anything, he was fucking knocked out. I just threw his hoodie in the wash and put his feet in some warm water for a while when I got him inside. He wasn't wearing _shoes,_ Mikey. Just fuckin’ socks. He would've gotten frostbite or something. He's sleeping in the guest room now.”

“Weren't his shirt and pants wet?”

“I didn't wanna take ‘em off. It felt weird.”

“Jesus.” The line was quiet for several beats. “You were up all night, weren't you?”

There was shuffling on the other end, like now Mikey was pacing around as well.

“I’m calling Mom.”

“N-No! Don't--I--!” Gerard jumped to his feet, panicked.

“You don't want to call the cops. I'm not going to police your--albeit questionable--moral decisions, but you can't do this _alone,_ Gerard.”

Gerard tore out of the kitchen and almost tripped over the kid, who quickly shuffled away, pressed against the wall. Gerard just stared, dumbfounded. How long had he been sitting there?

“Gerard?” Mikey’s voice crackled in his ear after a few seconds. “You still there?”

“Gotta go, Mikey,” he said quickly. Gerard ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket before backing up and slowly squatting down to match the boy’s height from the floor, keeping a few feet between them.

The boy was curled up against the wall of the narrow hallway. Somehow, in the light, he looked even smaller than he had last night, likely no taller than five feet and skinny like a twig. A bird’s nest of dark brown hair framed his pale face, and two bruised, knobby knees poked out from the holes in his jeans. In the daylight, Gerard could see that though the kid looked young, he was likely older than Gerard had first thought, noting the faint scruff on his jaw and lip. He was looking at Gerard with the same terrified expression that he had last night, though he appeared to be a little more lucid now. He was shivering like he was cold, even though the house was undoubtedly warm, almost stuffy. Gerard had turned up the thermostat five degrees when he’d gotten back last night, chilled to the bone.

“Hey, you're finally awake,” Gerard said. He kept his voice low, trying not to spook the kid. “I was starting to get worried.”

The young man just continued staring at him with wide eyes, though he wouldn't meet Gerard’s gaze directly. He still looked scared, but more confused than before.

“I'm not mad that you're not in the bed, you just startled me. But you should really be resting. But it's good that you're awake, though.” Gerard ran a hand through his hair. He was rambling, and the kid was still staring. He rubbed his eyes again. The boy had questions, Gerard could tell.

“You're safe now. I promise I have not and will not hurt you. I found you last night and brought you back here. It's a few towns over from where you were before.” The kid’s eyes darted around the living room behind Gerard for about two seconds and then went back to staring at Gerard’s nose.

“It’s my house,” Gerard finished awkwardly. He stood, uselessly brushing off his jeans before extending a hand towards the kid.

“You can get up, it’s okay. I'm not going to grab you, I promise. Just take my wrist and we’ll get you up. I just finished making another pot of coffee, you can have some if you want.” He gestured vaguely into the kitchen, where the coffee pot stopped gurgling, as if on cue. Gerard sighed. It was the third pot he’d made that day, and it was only mid-morning.

The kid squinted at Gerard’s arm like it was going to grow spikes and impale him if he looked away for even a second. Suddenly, he met Gerard’s eyes. His expression was suspicious and searching, like he was looking for something within Gerard that could not be promised verbally. Gerard shifted on his feet, feeling exposed.

After long, silent moment, something in the kid’s expression changed and he squeezed his eyes shut before grabbing Gerard’s wrist, tight. Gerard hauled him up and felt a little bad when the kid winced and rolled his shoulder, flexing his arm too many times to be considered normal, and then anxiously rubbed his ribs. Gerard felt worry knot in his stomach as he wondered how injured this kid really was. Even when the boy lost his balance for a moment and nearly fell over, he didn't remove his left hand from his hoodie pocket. He staggered back, and flashed a glance at Gerard before staring at the floor, looking unsure.

“Over here,” Gerard beckoned the kid into the kitchenette and sat down at the table. He was afraid that if he touched the kid, he would jump out of his own skin. Once the boy was seated, Gerard got up and poured himself a cup of coffee and the kid a glass of water before sitting down again. The boy was back to avoiding Gerard’s eyes altogether, intently staring at something in his lap.

“I’m sorry I startled you so much. I forgot to introduce myself earlier. I’m Gerard. What's your name?”

The kid was silent. He looked uncomfortable.

“Come on, I can't just call you ‘hey kid.’ You do have a name, right?” Gerard tried to sound reasonable. The kid just hunched his shoulders and continued to look down, shifting in his seat. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Gerard.

“Hey, can you talk?”

The kid looked up at him, alarmed. He looked like he was about to speak, but then seemed to remember something and hesitantly shook his head no, flinching away as he did so.

Gerard blinked. The kid’s reaction made him worried, but at least he _knew_ now: the kid couldn't talk. He wondered why, but wow, it sure would've been useful if Gerard had known this from the start. He was such a dumbass. Despite himself, he smiled, and the kid looked even more confused by this.

“That's okay! Here, wait, hold on.” Gerard lept up and rummaged through the drawer beside the stove before returning with a notepad and a pen. He set it in front of the kid and settled back down.

“I'm sorry, let's try this again. My name’s Gerard Way, what's yours?”

The kid gave a hasty glance at the notepad and then Gerard before grabbing the pen and scratching something down. He pushed the pad towards Gerard and looked down again.

 _Frank,_ it read.

Gerard grinned and held out his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Frank.”

Frank hesitantly shook his hand and gave him a look that was somewhere between bewilderment, fear, and pure gratitude. He quickly scrawled down something else and pushed the notepad back.

_it's been a long time since anyone called me that. thank you._

Gerard wondered about this, but didn't say anything, not then. He plastered on another grin before the kid could see his look of worry, and looked at Frank’s face, glad to see that he seemed a bit more relaxed. After a while, Gerard remembered Mikey’s words echoing in his head and found himself unable to continue smiling. He knew that he had done the right thing, but Mikey had a point; Gerard might've technically _kidnapped_ this guy, in the eyes of the law.

 _Unless whoever tied him up out there kidnapped him first,_ something in the back of his mind whispered. Gerard knew what he must ask, first and foremost.

“Frank,” Gerard began. Frank looked up from where he’d been resting his head in his hands and matched his gaze to Gerard’s serious tone. “I've just got one question for you, as of right now.” Frank tensed up immediately, his entire body going visibly rigid.

“I won't pry,” Gerard assured, “but I need to know: The property that I rescued you from--was it your parents’ house?”

Frank’s eyes widened as he realized what Gerard thought had been going on. He shook his head vehemently, even writing _NO_ on the notepad for added emphasis. Gerard was so relieved, he felt as though he could float away. Frank did not offer any further information, but if Gerard had rescued him from a dangerous place that was not his home, it couldn't be _that_ illegal. He tried to convince himself that everything was fine.

“Thank God,” Gerard sighed.

Gerard belatedly noticed that Frank was swaying a little in his seat, and he looked even paler than before, almost chalk white. After a moment, he put his head back in his hands and Gerard heard his shallow breaths from across the table. Gerard didn't quite know what was wrong with him, but the signs were all too familiar.

“If you're gonna be sick, the bathroom’s the last door on the left.”

He felt Frank bolt past him and waited a few beats before getting up and following.

( ) ( ) ( )

Frank felt tears in his eyes as he vomited into the toilet. It tasted absolutely rancid. His throat burned. He sat back on his knees but immediately collapsed against the side of the bathtub, his head spinning. Somewhere in his peripherals he saw the young man, Gerard, standing in the doorway.

“Are you alright?” the voice seemed to filter through thick air, reaching Frank’s ears delayed and far away.

Frank felt his mouth still open, probably getting puke and spit all over himself again. He only vaguely registered Gerard wiping his chin and bottom lip and nose with a piece of toilet paper. He reached up and touched the side of his head, which was throbbing now, but the pain was so intense upon contact that he cried out and jerked his hand away.

“Is it your head?” the man’s voice was closer to his ear than he expected and Frank instinctively flinched away, accidentally bumping the afflicted area against the tub. He groaned in pain.

“Shit. _Shit._ ”

Frank stopped paying attention to what the man was saying and closed his eyes. Gerard’s voice had a frantic, panicky tone, but it was negated by the calm, repetitive motions of his hand rubbing Frank’s shoulder. A wave of exhaustion hit Frank like a ton of bricks, weighing him down. He collapsed back into something warm. Was he in this guy’s lap? When did that happen? He tried to get away, but when he struggled, two hands on his shoulders kept him down.

“Don't move,” a man’s voice said.

Panic and confusion ran through his veins and he jerked, suddenly feeling hands all over, in his hair, on his arms, on his ass, his legs. Frank let out a strangled sound and instantly the hands released him. He ripped himself free, scrabbling away and opening his eyes, but there was only one man kneeling there, Gerard. Everything in the room was blurry and too bright. Frank doubled over and rubbed his eyes, and just sat like that for a while, resting the heels of his palms in his eye sockets. Gerard had told him not to move. He had moved. Now, he would be punished. He could feel his shoulders and hands shaking. Gerard’s rambling voice drifted in and out, but for reasons that Frank could not fathom, he didn't sound angry. He sounded _concerned._

“Fuck, I’m so sorry…”

“Why the fuck didn't I take you to the hospital?”

Frank sat up gingerly and opened his eyes again, blinking rapidly until the room came back into focus. He still felt dizzy and a little sick, but he would just have to wait for it to pass. Gerard was just sitting there, temporarily silenced. He was looking at Frank very worriedly, his finger on the call button of his phone. The screen display read _911._

Frank looked at Gerard and took him in fully for the first time. Though he was obviously male, Frank felt more inclined to say he was “pretty,” rather than “handsome.” He had long eyelashes and long, black hair that curled up a bit at the ends, framing his round face in dark swoops. His eyebrows were thick but elegant, and he was gnawing on the corner of a defined, pink bottom lip. The guy reminded Frank more of a woman than a man, which was somehow very comforting. He examined Gerard’s eyes again, searching them for any harmful intent. Just like the first time back in the hallway, all he saw was genuine concern, compassion. Care. Even when Gerard was so distressed, his entire presence felt calming, somehow. Frank was letting himself get lulled into it. It wasn't natural.

Without thinking, Frank reached out and touched Gerard’s hand. Gerard dropped the phone instantly and retracted his hand as if he'd been burned, letting the device clatter to the floor. Frank recoiled, realizing too late that he hadn't had permission to touch Gerard, but again, the guy didn't look angry, just startled. Frank put his trembling hand back in his lap and stared at the notepad under the man’s other arm for a long time before Gerard finally noticed and handed it over.

Frank took a deep breath and wrote slowly. His already-sloppy handwriting was nearly illegible because of how much he was still shaking. He felt the ghost of a hand pressing down on his shoulder and shivered. After a few tense, silent minutes, he handed the notepad back to Gerard.

 _i have a concussion and a broken hand,_ it read. _i don't need the hospital unless you know a doctor who doesn't ask questions. do not endanger yourself for me._

Gerard squinted at the pad for a while, trying to decipher Frank’s handwriting, then just stared at the words, taking them in. Frank sat back, nervous. He hadn't even written down all of his injuries; that would've been a whole list. He knew what would happen if Gerard took him to the hospital: Frank would have to give them his full name. They'd identify him as a missing person, there'd be a big ordeal, and he'd be forced to go back to live with his parents. It was a choice that he couldn't handle, now less than ever. Even worse than that, someone might recognize him and bring him back to X. He remembered the nurse from last time and shuddered.

Either way, X would find Gerard, which was perhaps worst of all. He might kill him, but he might do _worse._ Frank wouldn't wish that on anyone, especially not the man who saved his life.

Finally, Gerard set the notepad aside and looked up. His face was stony, like he was bracing himself for something terrible.

“Lemme see your hand.”

Frank held out his limp left hand obediently and Gerard sucked in a breath through his nose. Frank had been hiding it in his hoodie for a reason; it was grotesque. He had already attempted to shift his broken bones back into their proper places, but some his fingers were clearly swollen, and it looked like his pinky was a lost cause, stuck out of position. Purple bruises were dotted along his fingers and the back of his hand, and two of the broken fingers were white at the tips from lack of circulation.

It hurt like hell, but it'd been a day. Frank was getting used to it. It wasn't nearly as bad as his broken arm had been last summer. Then again, his arm had never healed back quite right. He experimentally rolled his shoulder and winced when it clicked louder than usual, still sensitive from when Gerard had hauled him off the ground a few minutes prior.

“Jesus,” Gerard breathed, clearly horrified. He was tenderly cradling Frank’s hand, like it was a baby bird. “How the fuck--How do you even break a hand this badly?” He shook his head in disbelief, like he couldn't believe that he was really holding a smashed hand.

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you,” he said after a moment. “I'm no doctor, but if you don't go to the hospital for this, you're gonna lose your hand, dude.”

Frank gasped and looked at Gerard, shaken. He couldn't be serious. Frank took his hand back and gently put it back in his hoodie pocket. He knew that he couldn't go to the hospital, and now he felt even sicker. Gerard might take him to the hospital against his will. The thought of losing his hand terrified him, but his fear of the alternative was much worse. He pulled the notepad back into his lap and hastily wrote his message down before shoving it into Gerard’s lap.

_I DONT WANT TO GO BACK THERE_

Frank didn't specify exactly _where_ he meant, but he could tell that Gerard knew he wasn’t referring to the hospital. Gerard looked at the pad and then up at him and visibly blanched. He looked like he wanted to do something, but he was too afraid. If Frank had sat there for a few minutes more, Gerard might've hugged him. He didn't want to linger.

Once he was sure his bout of illness had gone, Frank shook his head slightly and stood, trying to convey to Gerard that he was fine. He wasn't, not really, but the close quarters were starting to freak him out. He'd thought that after being alone for so many hours a day, for so long, he would want nothing more than a good hug, but that didn't seem to be the case. He wanted to get out of this cramped bathroom, somewhere where he couldn't feel Gerard’s body heat... _radiating_ at him. Purposely avoiding his own reflection in the mirror, he slipped past the man in question, who had also gotten up and was just standing there awkwardly. Gerard didn't stop Frank, so he ventured back down the hallway and into the living room. There was really nothing more than a beaten-up looking sofa, a cheap glass coffee table, and a television, but the room was quiet enough. It looked lived-in, peaceful.

Frank paused beside the couch, suddenly unsure. Would Gerard be okay with him sitting on his furniture? He knew that X wouldn't be, especially not when he was so filthy.

Fuck, why’d he have to have a thought like that?

That first month came back to him in full force, all at once. The first month he was kidnapped, X’s girlfriend had been gone, and so Frank had been trained. He had not yet been sequestered away in the basement. Back then, it was only for punishment. Master had removed all of Frank’s clothes and never let him sit on anything in the house, only the floor. He'd had to eat on the floor, watch TV from the floor, sleep on the floor. At night, it was so cold, lying naked on the hardwood. Then, once he'd been banished to the basement, the concrete had become his home; he’d never gone near that mattress unless he was forced to. Down there, the nights were even colder. Looking at the sofa in front of him, Frank suddenly felt ill.

“You can sit,” Gerard’s voice drifted from behind him, pulling him back into the present.

Frank sat on the floor.

Frank kept staring straight ahead, even when Gerard’s knees blocked his view of the blank TV screen. He was determined to tune things out, right now. He dug his stubby nails into his thigh and felt them sink into his skin through his jeans.

“Hey,” Gerard said. Frank ignored him. “Hey, you can sit on the couch, y’know.”

Frank swallowed tightly and shook his head. That's what Master always said. _C’mon, Baby, you can sit here on the couch with me._ Like an idiot, Frank had fallen for it every time. And every time, the punishments he'd received taught him what a bad pet he'd been. Frank wasn't going to let that happen again. He wasn't a person, he had different rules to follow. No animals on the furniture. This place was no different.

Gerard crouched down in front of him. Great, now Frank was forced to stare through this guy’s _face._ He softened a bit, though. He wouldn't admit it, but being talked to on an even keel was nice. He was used to being talked down to, exclusively, and not just because of his small stature.

“Why can't you sit on the couch?” Gerard’s voice wasn't accusing, but gentle. Frank gave up. He looked around for a moment before Gerard placed the notepad in his hands, a step ahead.

 _i’m dirty,_ was all Frank wrote, gripping the pen tightly. Gerard didn't need to know the full reason why. This would make more sense to him.

“Oh!” This seemed to suddenly occur to Gerard, as though he hadn't noticed before that Frank was absolutely disgusting-looking. “That’s right, I'm sorry about that.” Frank quirked an eyebrow, feeling his muscles relax slightly.

“I dropped you, last night,” Gerard admitted, with some shame. Frank bugged his eyes at him. “Well, I mean, I didn't _drop_ you, but I tripped while I was carrying you, so...that's why you're so dirty. Don't worry, you didn't hit your head or anything. I think your concussion is from something else…” he trailed off, looking worried.

Frank examined himself. Well, that would at least explain why he was covered in mud, and why his back hurt so badly. Not really why he was _dirty._ Gerard didn't know the half of it.

“I’ll get you some clean clothes,” Gerard said, standing. He extended his hand to Frank again, and this time Frank took it readily. Gerard pulled him up more gently this time and led Frank back to his room, which was next to the blue room that Frank had woken up in.

As Gerard dug through his drawers, Frank hung back several paces in the hallway and absorbed what he could see of the bedroom from the doorframe. There were a couple small movie posters tacked up haphazardly around the room, mostly for old horror flicks and sci-fi movies. A large Danzig poster hung above the unmade bed, the only poster in the room that was hanging straight. Frank craned his neck and spotted a shelf of books and CDs in the corner of the room, as well as the edge of a guitar case. He was suddenly struck with longing for his old guitar, stronger than ever before. He wondered how often Gerard played, or if he was any good.

“Most of my posters are back at home, I only took a few when I moved out and some of ‘em got destroyed in college,” Gerard laughed casually, obviously attempting to lighten the mood. He walked over to Frank and held out the pile of dark clothes in his arms. Frank grabbed them with earnest.

“You can take a shower if you want,” Gerard said. He wrinkled his nose. “And you probably should,” he joked.

If this had happened a year ago, Frank might've laughed along and told Gerard to fuck off before hopping in the shower. But now, he realized, he had a whole new challenge: the fucking _shower._ He wanted nothing more than to feel the hot water against his skin, to finally be clean, but…the prospect of being naked and alone in a stranger’s home made him immensely uncomfortable. Anything could happen--he didn't really know this Gerard guy--he could do _anything._ Gerard noted the worry on Frank’s face and donned a concerned look of his own.

“Hey, what's wrong?”

He offered Frank the pad again, but Frank denied it; he didn't have the heart to tell Gerard that _he_ was the problem. Instead, Frank just swallowed and anxiously looked across the hall at the bathroom and then back to Gerard, suddenly seeing the man as the threat he was once again. Gerard seemed to read his mind, then, and took a step back. Frank relaxed a bit.

“You'll have total privacy in there.” He put his hands up, another calming gesture. “I'll be right outside if you need me, but I’ll never go in the bathroom when you're in there, I won't even think of it. Please, you've really gotta get clean and warm or you'll just get sicker.”

Frank looked at him, but he didn't need to see the sincerity in Gerard’s eyes to believe it. It was in his voice. After a minute, he gave a small nod to himself and walked over to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door.

( ) ( ) ( )

Frank was in the shower for a long time.

Not that Gerard minded. He knew how filthy the poor guy was. If Gerard had woken up that dirty, he would've been in the shower _yesterday._ He thought about Frank’s reluctance to go in the shower despite his unhygienic state and frowned. It had just been a guess, but Gerard seemed to have hit the nail on the head: it was a privacy issue. Though he cringed to think of what had happened to the kid in his past that made him genuinely afraid of Gerard coming into the bathroom while he was showering. Coming into the bathroom, it seemed, and _doing_ something.

Gerard shook his head and mentally scolded himself. He didn't know anything--he shouldn't be jumping to conclusions like that, not until he knew more. He sighed and flipped on the TV, trying not to think about the building pressure of stress in his head and the mysterious, mute young man in his shower. He left the channel on some sort of courthouse drama and got up to do some more pacing.

Gerard did the dishes left in the sink from three days ago. He poured himself yet another cup of coffee and sat down. The drama on the screen might as well have been in another language, because Gerard’s brain just wouldn't focus. It all seemed so trivial, so irrelevant somehow. He got up and paced again, sipping his coffee too fast and scalding his tongue. He opened the window. It smelled like snow. He closed the window. He felt like a caged animal.

Gerard considered calling Mikey back, but decided against it. He might break down again. It was important that he stayed strong; he couldn't help Frank, let alone anyone, if he didn't help himself first. He sat down again and forced himself to stay down, but his nerves were jangled. His head was reeling from lack of sleep and confusion, and he was starting to get the caffeine shakes. He set down the mug on the coffee table and folded his arm underneath himself, opting to flip through the channels at breakneck speed while bouncing his leg even faster. He had gotten through about half of the channel index when he heard the shower turn off, and he was almost all the way through the entire directory by the time he heard Frank quietly pad into the living room.

Gerard muted the TV and turned to face him, forcing himself to keep his movements slow and less erratic. Frank’s hair was dripping, like he hadn't dried it at all. Wet and untangled, it looked even longer, and a lot of it fell into his face when he looked down at Gerard. He just left it there, blinking the water out of his eyes. His hands hung limply at his sides, all but hidden by the long sleeves of the black sweater that Gerard had given him. The sweatpants were sagging off of his bony hips, likely revealing the top of Gerard’s old Batman boxers underneath the sweater hem. Gerard smiled internally. Those hadn't fit him since he was a kid.

“Hey, Frank,” he said, remembering that Frank liked to be called by his name and aiming to use it as often as possible. He scooted over and patted the couch cushion next to him. Frank eyed it for a long moment before perching on the edge of it, his whole body tensed and ready to run.

“Frank, you can relax. Nobody is going to hurt you,” Gerard said hesitantly.

Frank made a conflicted face and only untensed a little. He shivered, but it was unclear if it was from his wet hair dripping down his back, or something else entirely. Gerard sighed and gently set the notepad and pen on Frank’s lap.

“How are you feeling, Frank?”

Frank picked up the pen and wrote, less hasty this time but not much less tense. He wrote a few words before scribbling them out and starting again. His hair obscured his face entirely. He picked up the notebook and cautiously placed it on the couch, next to Gerard’s leg.

_a hot shower really makes you feel like a human being._

Gerard smiled. He had been expecting a one-word answer, but it looked like Frank was starting to open up a bit.

“It does, doesn't it?” he agreed.

Gerard picked up the pen and held it up, rolling it between his fingers absently. He set it down and turned to Frank, who was still looking at Gerard with this weird, terrorized expression. He also looked really confused, though Gerard had no idea as to why. It was freaky--all the more reason for Gerard to leave the room before his stress and exhaustion got to him.

“I’m gonna go take a nap. You gonna be okay here?”

Frank nodded stiffly.

“You can watch TV if you want. Feel free to flip through the channels, though I don't think anything good is on at one in the afternoon,” Gerard told him truthfully, glancing at the TV clock.

He carefully placed the remote next to Frank on the arm of the couch and got up, stretching his arms over his head. As soon as he saw Gerard’s arms go up, Frank flinched and curled himself up into the corner of the couch. It made Gerard’s throat feel tight.

“Just stretching,” he mumbled quietly, quickly pulling his arms down.

Frank looked down and made a face like he was angry at himself. Gerard took a few steps back and just watched the guy, suddenly unsure if he should leave him alone. It was decided when Frank looked up at Gerard with such a look of hostility that Gerard physically jumped back. Okay, so he wanted to be left alone. Point taken.

Gerard hurried out of the room and down the hall, gently closing the door of his bedroom. He flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes, exhausted. After a few minutes, the muffled sounds of the TV filtered in through his closed door. He sighed and curled up on his side, willing sleep to come. Now that he’d actually interacted with Frank, the reality of the situation sank in and his stress and worry built up once more. If he were more awake, he might've panicked. Thankfully, he was just drifting off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was a little later than the other two. I hope it was worth the wait! :)


	4. Helping/Hurting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic mention of rape, panic attack

It was already almost six in the evening by the time Gerard woke from his “nap.” He sat up and held his head, a sleep headache forming beneath his temples. He heard the sound of the TV playing from down the hall and furrowed his brow. Had he left it on? With a jolt, he remembered. He shot up off the bed and hurried down the hallway.

He had just left Frank alone for nearly five hours.

In the living room, Frank was sleeping curled up on the couch. Gerard stopped in his tracks and sighed in relief. Last night had been a long night for them both. He turned down the volume on the TV and retrieved a blanket from the hall closet, covering Frank’s sleeping form with it. Gerard had always thought the phrase “I felt my heart clench” was just a saying, but as he watched the boy subconsciously snuggle into the blanket’s warmth, something in his chest really did feel tighter.

Swallowing hard, Gerard pulled himself away and headed into the kitchen, putting a pot of water on the stove. He was hungry, so he was sure Frank must be as well. While he was waiting for the water to boil, Gerard thought back to last night, the way he’d found the boy shivering miserably tied up in the cold, the way he’d fallen unconscious just in the time it took Gerard to set him free. He felt a surge of rage go through him. No one who does that to a kid has got to be feeding them well, either. He thought of how skinny Frank had looked when Gerard had removed his oversized, filthy sweatshirt, his arms all skin and bone, his body almost emaciated. Definitely not.

Gerard gripped the handle of the spoon as he stirred in the pasta, feeling helpless yet determined. The memories of last night and Frank’s words from earlier plagued his every thought.

_I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK THERE._

Gerard shook his head, feeling awful.

“You'll never go back there, I promise,” he said aloud. If Frank was listening, it didn't matter. Gerard was only reassuring himself.

( ) ( ) ( )

The first thing Frank registered was the smell of pasta sauce. Then, he heard the gruff sound of a man’s voice yelling. His eyes shot open and he looked around, panicked, until his eyes landed on the TV in front of him, which was playing some shitty-looking action movie with race cars at a low volume. He remembered where he was. He sighed and relaxed a fraction. He was in Gerard’s house, which would probably also explain the food smell. His stomach felt hollow.

Frank tried to ignore the pain still gnawing at his insides and cursed himself for falling asleep on the couch. He hadn't fallen asleep naturally in months for fear of being attacked or violated in his sleep; any sleep he had gotten had been either drug-induced, or he had been knocked unconscious or fainted from bodily weakness. But now, he had taken a _catnap,_ in the home of a total stranger. Why was this place any different? He surely was in no less danger here than he was back in X’s basement.

Frank looked down and noticed that Gerard had covered him with a blanket. He pulled it closer to himself and shuddered slightly, looking into the small sliver of the kitchen visible from the couch, where he saw the guy standing at the stove and stirring a pot. The fact that Frank’s brain seemed to trust this man terrified him. He curled up on himself a bit, feeling uneasy.

Gerard’s nicety was suspicious, to say the least. He had promised not to hurt Frank, but Frank had long ago learned to take those words with a grain of salt. He thought back to the last person who had been nice to him and felt immediate revulsion just from picturing his face.

It had been a man whom Frank was only to address as “S”, though he'd heard the other men refer to him as “Silverman”. He’d visited Frank twice a week in the summer and fall, not long ago at all, though each day had dragged by so slowly and had run into the next, it didn't feel that way. S had been so gentle, Frank almost didn't feel like he was getting violated at all.

By the end of October, Frank had built up a great deal of trust in the man, though what he felt was closer to desperate reliance, in hindsight. He looked forward to S’s every visit, for those sweet embraces and gentle touches that he craved more than anything. On the night before his seventeenth birthday, S had brought him a small chocolate bar, and a message.

_“You're free, sugar,” he whispered softly as he pressed a key into Frank’s sticky palm. Frank’s eyes widened. S pointed up at the basement door._

_“Don't let him catch you,” he whispered mischievously, dark eyes twinkling. He stood and left up the stairs, locking the door behind him. Frank’s heart felt faster than that of a mouse._

_Frank stayed awake for hours, until he was sure it was the dead of night, or maybe early morning. He crept up the stairs and unlocked the door, hands trembling. He made it about three steps before an elbow to the chest knocked the air out of his lungs and he crashed to the ground._

_X beat him savagely, kicking his stomach and his chest over and over and over. Frank curled into a ball and screamed, terrified._

_“Yeah, let him down hard,” he heard S’s voice say._

_He was shoved up against the leather armchair in the living room and fucked mercilessly, first by X, then by S, and then X again until it all just started to blur together. They might've both been inside him at the same time, at some point. He gripped the leather so tightly that his fingernails began to tear from his skin._

_S was thrusting into him when the sun came up. Frank was facing the window and it scorched his eyes, bright and red and blinding. The worst part was that even after betraying him, S was just as infuriatingly gentle as ever. He curled his fingers around Frank’s cock and Frank came for the nth time, sobbing with pain and exhaustion and self-disgust._

_S pulled out and flipped Frank over. He took a pocket knife out of his coat pocket and very, very slowly cut a slice along one of Frank’s lower ribs, one of the only smooth areas on his torso not already marred with previous scars from knives and sharp fingernails and cigarettes. The man’s touch was so light, it didn't even hurt until after the blade left Frank’s skin. Frank felt the warm blood running down his belly and sniffled. S reached out and caught a drop, licking his finger. He smiled at Frank, cold and sadistic. The kindness was gone._

_“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”_

Frank was so absorbed in the horrific memory, he didn't even notice Gerard standing right in front of him. The sound of his name brought him back.

“Frank,” Gerard said urgently, as if it wasn't his first time repeating it. Frank finally looked up, startled. Gerard’s face was a picture of concern, and maybe some discomfort. He was still looking at Frank as though there was something wrong with him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, trying to meet Frank’s eyes. Frank looked down and twisted his hand into the fabric of the blanket.

He could've answered that honestly, but it wasn't what Gerard wanted to hear. He nodded his head. After a moment, Gerard gave Frank a half-smile and gestured with the spoon he was holding towards the kitchen, taking a small step back.

“Dinner’s ready. I just made some pasta, if that's okay. I've gotta go shopping soon.” Frank’s stomach growled and Gerard laughed, his smile looking slightly forced. “Let’s get some food in you.”

Frank pulled the blanket around himself like a cloak and stood, clutching it to himself tightly. It was kind of awkward using only one hand, but he managed. He tucked his hands beneath it so Gerard didn't see them shaking from his flashback, or whatever the fuck that was. Gerard gave him a strange look for a second before shrugging and leading the way into the kitchenette, where two heaping plates of marinara-covered spaghetti were set on the table. Frank waited for Gerard to sit before he did the same. Gerard waited for Frank to begin eating before he did, however, which put Frank at a loss. He was ravenous, but he would not touch the food until Gerard directly told him to eat. He glanced at the still-hot pot on the stove and felt unease run up his spine.

“You can--You can eat,” Gerard haltingly said after a few minutes, twirling another bite of spaghetti on his fork and putting it in his mouth, as if to show an example.

 _May I eat this?_ Frank mouthed. It was only a few words, but he suddenly hoped that Gerard was proficient at lip-reading. Gerard just stared at him. It was hard to tell if he had understood or not.

“Eat the pasta,” he said hesitantly. He looked uncomfortable ordering Frank around, but it was the confirmation that Frank needed.

He picked up his fork and began shoveling the food into his mouth. His rapid eating wasn't just because of his hunger; he was afraid that Gerard would take it away or push it to the floor before he got to finish. Gerard looked at him inquisitively but said nothing, turning to his own plate and seeming to purposefully eat his food slowly and deliberately. Frank paused and realized that Gerard was trying to set an example. Feeling ashamed, he forced himself to slow down.

“You're going to get sick again if you eat that fast,” Gerard simply said. “The food’s not going anywhere.”

Feeling more reassured and far more embarrassed, Frank ate the remaining food on his plate very slowly, not wanting to upset the man sitting across from him. Anything that was asked of him, expected of him, he did to the extreme; it wasn't the worst habit to have, he supposed. It was polite. Gerard had made the food, after all. Eating quickly probably indicated to him that Frank wasn't appreciative of the effort he had taken to cook the meal. When he was finished, he sat back slightly, unsure of what to do. Gerard’s plate was still mostly full.

Gerard cleared his throat and looked at Frank. He gestured around his mouth, smirking. Frank felt his face heat up and quickly wiped his face with a napkin. It came back red with sauce and Gerard laughed lightheartedly, revealing an array of tiny, pearly teeth.

“Missed your nose,” he said. Frank wiped it, feeling self-conscious, but he couldn't help cracking a small smile. Gerard’s laugh was infectious, even if he was laughing _at_ him.

“So,” Gerard began through bites of food, “hungry, huh?” Frank felt his face get hot with embarrassment again and nodded.

“Well, you’re a growing boy.” Gerard paused. “How old are you anyway?”

 _Seventeen,_ Frank mouthed. He sighed inwardly, silently glad that Gerard hadn't mentioned his weight or the fact that he'd eaten his meal like a starving animal.

“Seventeen? Hmm, yeah, I see it.” Gerard touched his own jaw, referencing Frank’s slight facial hair. “Though I thought you were younger when I first saw you. I'm twenty-two.”

Frank just nodded, absorbing this information. Gerard looked younger than he really was, too.

“Speaking of which, do you wanna shave or something later?” Gerard asked. “Not that you have to,” he added.

Frank nodded.

“Okay, I've got a few extra razors you can use,” Gerard said.

There were several minutes of silence as Gerard attempted to finish his meal while Frank stared at him, waiting to be asked another question or told what to do. Seeming unnerved, Gerard gave up on the spaghetti and set his fork down. Frank averted his gaze. Direct eye contact made him uncomfortable, especially when he was still shaken from a bad memory.

“So, uh,” Gerard began again. He took a breath and expelled his next words on the exhale. “Is there a reason why you can't talk?”

Frank tensed at the question. Yes, his throat was injured, and he'd “lost his voice” yesterday, so to speak, but he hadn't been able to speak for months before that, even on the days when his throat had been physically fine. And that wasn't really something he could explain, not even to himself. He opened his mouth, as if out of habit, but Gerard was already talking again.

“Y’know what, no, no, just forget it. That was a stupid question, sorry,” Gerard babbled hurriedly, fiddling with his napkin.

Frank blinked at him. He was surprised, having expected Gerard to press him for an answer. It was an insensitive question, he supposed, but it couldn't be helped. It was fucking weird that he couldn't talk, people were bound to ask. At least Gerard had asked politely. Frank pulled the blanket around his shoulders more and sat on his good hand, shrugging.

“Just to be clear though, it’s psychological then, right? Like, there's no actual physical damage to your throat?”

Frank winced. _Both,_ he mouthed. Gerard’s eyebrows shot up.

“ _Both?_ Okay, well…fuck.”

Gerard rested his head on his hand for a moment before looking back up. Frank continued to look down at his lap, only daring to spare short glances across the table at the other man.

“The physical damage isn't permanent though, right? Nothing I gotta get you medical attention for?”

Frank pointedly ignored Gerard’s comment about “medical attention” and shook his head. His throat would be fine in a day or two. Probably. Besides, if he couldn't talk anyway, it wasn't really important if his throat was damaged or not.

Gerard looked unconvinced but nodded nonetheless. When Frank tried and failed to stifle a yawn, he smiled at him lopsidedly.

“Tired again already?” Frank considered this question and nodded upon deciding that Gerard wasn't condescending him. He actually felt a little bit more than tired, woozy maybe, and he knew it wasn't just from the concussion. His mouth felt dry, his hands were clammy, and his lungs felt tight. Frank knew he was getting sick, sicker; he’d give it a day at most before he started hacking up a lung. It was not unusual for him to fall ill; he had a perpetual cold due to his shitty immune system and poor living conditions, and the fact that he’d spent hours in the rain last night made it virtually inevitable that it would develop into something worse.

“Yeah, well, it looks like you need the rest. No offense--you just look really…exhausted,” Gerard finished, as though he was originally going to say something else. Frank nodded again and Gerard was starting to look uncomfortable again. It was obviously Frank’s fault, somehow. He looked down.

“You can just use the guest room, y’know, the room you were in before. End of the hall on the left. You want pajamas?”

Frank hesitated before nodding once more. The clothes he was in were warm and big and comfortable, but if he was being offered something it might be rude to turn it down. Gerard gave him a quizzical look and got up, wiping his face.

“Pajamas it is, then,” he said, leading the way down the hall. Once again he rummaged through his dresser while Frank hung back in the hallway. He presented them to Frank and left him at the door of the guest room.

“Goodnight, Frank,” he said, halfway turned to go back down the hallway. The light from the kitchen and living room shone behind him, making him just a silhouette in the dim hallway.

Frank nodded and Gerard lingered there for a moment, just staring. The fact that Frank couldn't see his face made him uncomfortable. Finally, he turned and walked down the hall, and Frank let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His chest hurt, but he was unsure if it was from stress or his likely broken rib. Probably the latter.

He clicked the door shut behind him, locking it from the inside (the _inside!_ ), and sighed into the inky darkness of the room, trying not to let it swallow him whole. He quickly decided that he wouldn’t put the pajamas on. Frank didn't think he could handle getting undressed again, even if it was in the dark. To be naked, even for a few seconds, was to be exposed, to be disgusting. He shuddered, remembering the shower. It had been a terrible idea to shower with the lights on, as he was forced to see and to touch his scarred, repulsive body all over and watch the marred skin swell with the water, wounds reopening and skin burning. He would avoid looking at his body from now on, if he could help it.

If Gerard became angry with him for not accepting the offer of pajamas, he would just deal with it in the morning. Right now, he felt too tired and weak to do much of anything. He had finally escaped the basement, but somehow he felt more lost than ever. What lay ahead of him was unknown, and it terrified him. Frank curled up beneath the bedclothes and reveled in the warmth that soon enveloped him. It almost felt like a hug. He burrowed down further into the blankets and willed himself to slip away.

( ) ( ) ( )

Gerard sank down on the couch and turned the notepad over in his hand, smoothing out the front. He had assumed Frank would want it with him at all times, but he kept leaving it everywhere, which said volumes for the guy’s reluctance to communicate. Frank had pressed so heavily, the ballpoint pen had left deep, inky grooves in the paper. Gerard reread what was written on the page and ran his fingers over the letters, feeling the bumps and ridges of the words as if they were written in Braille. It made them feel more tangible, more real. His fingers stopped at the end of the penultimate cluster of messy letters. He frowned.

_do not endanger yourself for me._

Gerard wondered what that meant. The way Frank had looked at him had said, “do not endanger _us._ ” He couldn't help but feel a little afraid. Would helping this kid really be that perilous for both of them? Whatever Frank had escaped from, he was terrified of it. The fear was as contagious as a laugh or a yawn. Gerard knew it was ridiculous; hospitals were meant to save people, not kill them. Nonetheless, it was a feeling he couldn't shake. He moved his fingers down to the next statement, written in big, messy, slanting letters that ran together and almost tore the paper apart:

_I DONT WANT TO GO BACK THERE_

Gerard considered this plea for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour. He felt on edge. Frank desperately needed medical attention, but was Gerard willing to risk both of their lives to get it? What if he got worse? Gerard knew he’d be forced to decide soon, and the very thought filled him with dread. With a weary sigh, he got up and shuffled off to bed. He knew he wouldn't sleep much, if at all, but he needed the darkness and silence to properly sort his thoughts. Tomorrow, he hoped, would bring more answers than questions.

( ) ( ) ( )

Giving himself a day to get sick had been a generous estimate. Frank found himself lying on his back, eyes squinting into the black, wide awake in the middle of the night. The digital clock on the bedside table told him it was almost 3 A.M.

His lungs seemed to shake and shudder in his ribcage as he breathed, and he felt a telltale drip and soreness in the back of his throat, further back than where it had been battered. The warm blankets were hot now, too hot, and Gerard’s clothing was uncomfortably stuck to his skin by sweat, but his limbs felt too heavy to even move. He felt incredibly sick, ill in a way that he so painfully remembered and feared each time. He sighed, but it immediately turned into a hacking cough, something fluid rattling around in his chest. He laid there for an indefinite amount of time, just staring blindly into the darkness and coughing. As the minutes passed, the coughs got more frequent, and worse. The fluid in his chest felt like it was almost in his throat.

Yeah, he had pneumonia, beyond a shadow of a doubt; he'd had it enough times as a kid and in the basement to know. He’d almost died from it so many of those times, he was sure. His heart raced faster in his chest, fear gripping his body. He was so fucked. He cursed his shitty immune system. Fuck EBV, or whatever the fuck his pediatrician had told his mom all those years ago to explain his shitty stomach and his shitty lungs. He hacked again and groaned.

X had always used Frank’s poor immune system to manipulate him. Whenever he got sick, X had paid special attention to him, bringing down blankets and medicine and caring for him the way a parent would. But he had been even more vigilant for “mistakes,” and one little slip up on Frank’s part had resulted in days alone and miserable in the damp basement, sick and without care. It had often been something as innocuous as coughing while Master was speaking, or simply vomiting in front of the man. There was nothing X hated worse than vomit.

As if on cue, Frank felt a sick to his stomach and wanted to kick himself for it. He was still ashamed that his first impression of Gerard was throwing up in front of him. No wonder Gerard had looked so uncomfortable during the meal. Frank was disgusting, awful, undesirable, now even more so because he was sick. He wouldn't be surprised if Gerard decided to throw him to the curb once the sun rose. Although he anticipated it, something about the thought made his stomach clench.

He didn't want to leave this house. He didn't want to leave _Gerard._ Frank knew it was foolish, as he'd only properly known the man for a few hours, but the man was the first person to treat him like a human being in over a year. He finally felt like a person again, when Gerard talked to him. Frank never wanted to lose that feeling ever again.

Frank wriggled himself up into a sitting position against the headboard, weak muscles protesting. He turned on the dim light on the nightstand and immediately felt more relaxed, now that he wasn't alone in the uncertain darkness. He wasn't going back to sleep now, he was sure; the knowledge that he was sick made him too afraid to sleep without nightmares again. He was about to attempt to sneak into the bathroom to check his wounds again when footsteps in the other room made him freeze. Then they were in the hallway, and there came a knock at his door.

“Frank?” Gerard’s voice sounded heavy from sleep, gravelly and slow. “You okay in there? I heard you coughin’.”

Frank remained frozen. Had Gerard forgotten that he couldn't respond? It was obvious that he had woken the other man, for which he felt absolutely awful. If it had been any other man, he'd surely be busting down the door right now to punish Frank for disturbing his slumber.

Frank tried to hold in a cough but it exploded out of his chest in a painful fit, wet and hacking. When it had finally ended, Frank pulled his arm away from his face and sucked in a shuddery breath. The white duvet was speckled with tiny red droplets. It was difficult to tell against the black sweater in the dim light, but the inside of his elbow was covered in blood, wet and dark.

“Frank?” Gerard jiggled the door handle but quickly gave up once he realized it was locked. “Can you let me in? I just wanna make sure you're okay.”

Frank’s face and hand were covered in blood and spit and snot. Gerard was on the other side of the door, still prepared to take Frank away to a hospital and unwittingly return him to a life of indescribable pain and suffering. However, if Frank just sat here forever and refused care, he would literally fucking die. And as often as he wished it upon himself, Frank was afraid of death. He had stared death in the face, he had shaken its goddamn hand, but in this moment, with this poor man begging and pounding on his door at three in the morning, Frank suddenly wasn't ready for it yet.

He took in a stuttering breath and stumbled out of the bed to his feet, but he only made it a couple steps before he collapsed, crying out as he landed solidly on his injured rib, all the air getting knocked out of his weak lungs. He tried to drag himself by his arms, but to no avail, all his limbs rendered virtually useless. A sharp, familiar smell assaulted his senses and he realized belatedly that in his emotional and physical turmoil, on top of everything else, he'd fucking pissed himself. A few tears and a small sob escaped him, along with a weak wheeze and cough, but crying did nothing to ease the pain. He felt agony, frustration, but above all, he felt humiliated and weak. He couldn't even get off the ground. This is what he'd become: a pathetic excuse for a person, let alone a man, who could do nothing but cry for help and get sick and piss his pants in fear. His breathing became erratic and his vision swam.

“Help,” he whimpered quietly. Gerard stopped knocking and went silent. Shit, shit. He had heard.

“...Frank?”

“Help,” he said again, quieter, but now Gerard was listening. He sounded pathetic, his voice wrecked from his injured throat and the cough and his crying. He laid his head down on the carpet and just let himself go limp on the floor. It felt like giving up.

The handle was jostled again and the lock clicked and suddenly, the door was swinging open. As Gerard entered the room, Frank played dead. It was better to be unconscious in a situation like this. He was too embarrassed to even look at the man’s face. This guy had taken him in purely out of his own good will, and Frank had only proven to be a disgusting disappointment. He had only been here for a day, and he’d already vomited everywhere, gotten life-threateningly sick, and pissed on the carpet. If that didn't qualify him for some sort of World’s Greatest Fuckup award, he didn't know what would.

Frank’s eyes were closed, but he could hear Gerard letting out agitated strings of curses under his breath again. Though it was extremely stressful for him to be around an irritated man, Frank was starting to see the muttering as a sign of worry in Gerard’s case, rather than anger. It was a risky assumption to make, but the alternative was to let his fear get to him, and he just didn't have the energy to panic right now.

“Shit,” Gerard said. He rolled Frank over, who kept perfectly limp. “ _Shit_ , fuck.”

He shook Frank’s shoulders for a few seconds but stopped once he determined that Frank was out. Frank reflexively tensed when he was suddenly scooped up off the floor but quickly forced himself to go limp again, despite feeling his skin crawl where one hand pinned his arm to his side and another gripped underneath his thigh. Gerard staggered backward several steps and bumped into the bed, surely not because of Frank’s weight but almost entirely from the momentum of trying to pick him up in one fell swoop.

As Gerard carried him into the bathroom, Frank tried to remain still, he really did. But the weight of what was going down crushed down on him and he couldn't help but panic, despite barely having the energy to move. Here he was, in a strange man’s arms again, soaked in his own piss and radiating fear but too weak to move a muscle. He didn't think he’d be back here, but somehow he always ended up back where he’d started, always fucking up somehow. Even if this wasn't it yet, he would be back there soon enough, in the arms of a man who really did want to harm him; Gerard definitely wouldn't want him around now. He would yell at Frank for being such a fuckup, he would roar like only a man does. And then Frank would be on his own. He started to tremble and Gerard gripped him tighter, which only made him shake more.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” Gerard rushed out. His nails were much longer than Frank’s, digging into Frank’s skin. Frank squinted his eyes open to try and get his bearings but everything was blurry and out of focus and it made his head hurt more, so he squeezed them shut again.

Frank felt like he was drowning. He couldn't breathe, he didn't know if it was the pneumonia or the panic, but he couldn't fucking breathe.

“Frank,” Gerard said, setting Frank down on the bathroom floor. “Frank, you need to try and take deep breaths for me. You're having a panic attack but it's okay, everything's okay. I’m not mad, no one is going to hurt you. Just breathe.”

Frank sucked in a breath too fast but it backfired and turned into a coughing fit, loud and violent. Gerard sat him up and rubbed his back, giving it intermittent thumps. Frank felt his head spinning and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He couldn't even _breathe_ right, how pathetic was that? A tear leaked down his cheek and he wondered if he’d even stopped crying from before.

Frank was terrified because he couldn't breathe, couldn't get any air into his lungs. He was choking on air, hacking and gasping, his body so worked up that he couldn't control it at all. Not daring to utter a word around people had become normal, but without a way to verbally signal his distress, he felt even more out of his depth, even more alone, even with someone right beside him.

After several painful minutes, he finally stopped coughing, his eyes still watering. Gerard gave Frank’s back two more cautionary pats and handed him a Dixie cup of water, which he downed gratefully.

“You alright?” Gerard sat back on his knees, concern lacing his voice.

Frank was slightly doubled over, rubbing his head. It was pounding with pain, over and over, like a construction site had been set up in his brain and some dumbass had left a jackhammer or three running. His breathing was heavy and labored, and he felt fresh sweat wet on his forehead and in his hair. He felt sick and weak and pathetic.

He looked up at Gerard and shakily nodded. Gerard sighed irritatably and Frank flinched back.

“No, Frank. You're just telling me what you think I want to hear. That's called lying.” He gestured wildly in Frank’s direction and Frank flinched again. Gerard wasn't quite yelling, but his voice was hard and exasperated. It was frightening.

Being called a liar made Frank’s blood run cold. In his first few months of being owned by X, Frank had told the man over and over that people were looking for him, that his family was going to rescue him and put the man in jail. And X had just laughed and called Frank a liar. No one had come for him, which only proved X right. Frank _was_ a liar--and a bad one, at that. Often, the same thing that was happening with Gerard right now had played out with X: Frank had been sick or injured, and lied and indicated he was alright when he very obviously wasn't, because he knew that asking for care was selfish and rude. Lying also resulted in punishment, though. Master _hated_ being lied to.

“You're _not_  alright. You look like shit. Don't lie,” Gerard said. He had been rambling on at Frank for a while, but Frank had been deaf to it, lost in his own head. Gerard seemed to notice Frank's distress immediately.

“Frank? What's wrong?”

Frank’s heart hurt almost as much as his head. Gerard was the same. They were all the same. Tears pricked his eyes and he pulled his knees to his chest and his head to his knees, waiting to be struck or yelled at further.

“Fuck. Hey Frank, c’mon, look at me. Look at me.”

Frank did so after a few moments, very hesitantly. Gerard seemed to see the fear in his eyes and made a remorseful face.

“Hey bud, that was really outta line. I know you were only trying to make me not worry, or something. You weren't lying. I'm sorry.” He scrubbed his face with one hand, sighing heavily. “It's been another long night for us both. I'm not mad, I promise. I'm still not mad about _that,_ either, if that's why you panicked,” he said, glancing down at Frank’s still-soiled sweatpants. Frank hid his face again in shame and Gerard tapped him lightly.

“Hey, you just had a little accident. It happens to the best of us.” Gerard made a face at that, like he was remembering something unpleasant. An idea seemed to strike him and he leaned in to a crouch, giving him a tiny grin.

“Wanna know a secret?” He leaned in closer, but not quite close enough for Frank to be uncomfortable, maintaining a careful distance.

“All guys pee their pants.”

Gerard waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially and Frank almost laughed out loud. He gave Gerard a weak glare with furrowed brows as to say _That's not true!_ , but his determination was quickly undermined by his need to cough several times into his elbow. Gerard held up his right hand by his head and put the other one on his heart.

“I swear on my life, it's true. It’s happened to more dudes than you think. Especially if they've ever been blackout drunk, and if they went to college, I'm telling you right now that that's a given.”

Gerard grunted his way off the floor and offered Frank a hand, which Frank gingerly took. His knees still felt wobbly, and Gerard gently steered him backwards and sat him on the toilet seat. Frank thought of how many times he’d seen and heard X and the men who abused him get so drunk, and smiled at the thought of them pissing themselves like babies. Maybe he wasn't so weak, after all. Gerard noticed Frank’s face and gave him a tired smile.

“See, there y’go, you're okay.” He reached out and patted Frank's shoulder, his smile only fading slightly when Frank tensed and hunched his shoulders at the contact. “I'm gonna go get you some clean clothes, just sit tight.”

Gerard soon returned with the clothes as promised and left Frank to wash up and change. To Frank’s surprise, Gerard was still patiently waiting outside the bathroom door when he emerged, even though he was swaying from exhaustion himself. Frank couldn't help but think he wasn't worth all this trouble, but he was feeling too drained at the moment to protest. Gerard walked Frank back to the guest bedroom and stopped in the doorway. Something in Frank was extremely grateful that Gerard did not enter the room. The fact that the space was exclusively his made it seem safer.

“Goodnight again, Frank,” Gerard said. If Frank squinted, he could see that the digital clock on the nightstand read 4:37 A.M. He took in a shuddering breath but was interrupted by another coughing fit. When he finally stopped again, Gerard was frowning at him with a mixed look of concern and determination.

“Get back in bed, you need to rest.”

Frank complied gratefully, happy to be surrounded with the soft warmth of a bed once more. He was just starting to drift off again when Gerard said something that made his limbs turn to ice.

“We're going to the hospital tomorrow.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. I deeply apologize for keeping you all waiting-- I had some pretty nasty writer's block this past month, and this chapter was sitting in my computer half-finished for weeks. :( I only want to put out the best writing I can for this fic, so that's what was going on. A lot went on in my life as well, like concerts and new friends and midterms. January was an exciting month, but I think it's back to the grindstone for me, writing this fic. I hope I haven't lost anyone! 
> 
> As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated. <3


	5. Doubts

The shrill sound of his doorbell repeatedly ringing roused Gerard from his lazy weekend slumber.

“Fuck, I’m coming, I'm coming,” Gerard grumbled into his pillow as the doorbell rang yet again. He swung his legs around and sat on the edge of his mattress, rubbing his eyes and groaning. He must've slept only half an hour last night in total, and that was being generous. The alarm clock beside his bed told him it was eight, or maybe nine, he couldn't fucking read because his eyes were blurry and he still felt like he was in a sleep coma and his head was pounding and he needed his fucking coffee. And _Jesus Christ_ , the doorbell was _still ringing_. It was too early for this shit.

He grunted and shoved his bedroom door open, less than pleased at having to answer to his brother this early on a Saturday morning. It had to be Mikey; no one else would incessantly ring his buzzer like this. It was a well-known fact that Mikey was not so much “bad at manners” but rather, “bad at human interaction in general.” Gerard shuffled to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and flung it open, shivering when a gust of crisp air flooded inside.

“Hello, Mikey,” he said, his voice flat. It was far too early in the morning for him to muster the energy to convey enthusiasm. Fuck that noise.

“You look like shit,” Mikey said, equally as monotonous, but in his own, purposeful way. He looked Gerard up and down and furrowed his brow, squinting at the raccoon-ish dark circles around his brother’s eyes. Somehow, Gerard always managed to look more worse for the wear than him, including today, despite the fact that Mikey had stayed up late every night the past week studying for midterms.

“I know. You woke me up, jackass. Wanna come in?” Gerard stepped aside and Mikey breached the entrance, standing just inside the doorway. Gerard stepped around him and leant back against the door until it clicked shut. He noticed that his brother’s nose and the tips of his ears were red and shiny, a sure sign that it was still freezing outside. Mikey’s hair was messy and unstraightened underneath his beanie. He was also holding onto a steaming Starbucks coffee cup. That lucky bastard.

Gerard trudged into the kitchen and went about starting a pot of coffee while Mikey unbuttoned his black pea coat, shrugging it off and draping it over the back of the couch. There were several long moments of silent tension, the only sound present the rustling of the coffee filters as Gerard dug one out of the cabinet. He placed one in the machine, dumped in some ground coffee, and snapped the lid shut. He filled the carafe in the sink and reopened the machine to pour the water into the reservoir, replaced the carafe, then snapped the plastic lid shut again, forcefully. _WHAP_. Mikey flinched.

“If you wanna say something, just say it,” Gerard said, turning to Mikey with an empty mug in hand. The coffee machine let out a loud gurgle and began its steady drip. Mikey eyed Gerard’s patterned Batman pajama pants instead of looking at his face, and swallowed.

“Where's the kid?”

“Resting,” Gerard answered. “And you shouldn't really call him a kid. He's your age, you know.”

“He's seventeen?” Mikey asked incredulously. When Gerard told him that he'd rescued a “kid” who had been left outside, he had thought that this kid had got to be a toddler, maybe. His mind scrambled to view the situation from the radically new angle that this kid was in fact an older teen, just like him.

“Yeah,” Gerard said, feeling worry build up in the back of his throat again as he thought of Frank sleeping like the dead, sick and alone. Fuck, he really should've checked on Frank when he got up. Fuck. He looked back up at Mikey and gave him a thin smile, feeling his undereye bags creasing with it.

“Why don't we sit down, hm?”

Mikey nodded imperceptibly and moved to perch himself on the edge of a couch cushion, much like Frank had done the previous day. He was tense, not as rigid as Frank had been, but tense nonetheless. Gerard flopped down onto the couch beside his little brother, letting his entire being just collapse backwards into the sagging furniture. Mikey took this as a cue to relax and sat back a bit, folding both hands around his coffee cup and analyzing Gerard expectantly. Gerard closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. It almost looked like he was asleep, but Mikey knew he was just psyching himself up for whatever his brother might ask him.

“How is he?” Mikey asked finally, unsure of what to say. Gerard sighed.

“Nonverbal,” Gerard said.

Mikey’s eyebrows shot up.

“He’s really fucking scared,” Gerard continued. “Jumpy as hell. Since he can't talk, I’ve been having him write on this old legal pad I found in the junk drawer. Hasn't told me much, though.” Gerard paused and tilted his head back, eyes opening to the ceiling. “He’s pretty fucking injured, and really fuckin’ sick. And I've gotta take him to a hospital but I think he’s saying that if I take him to a hospital someone is gonna catch him and take him back to wherever he was before, which is a really abusive place if how I found him is anything to go on, and he also maybe insinuated that it would put _me_ in danger as well, but he's _really_ sick, Mikey, and—”

“Gerard,” Mikey cut him off. His brother was getting nearly hysterical, and it wasn't even nine in the morning. Gerard had to be guided through conversation sometimes, especially this early. “Slow down. What exactly is wrong with him?”

Gerard took in a fast, shaky breath, finally looking at Mikey.

“In short, he’s got a really fuckin’ broken hand, and maybe a broken rib? And a killer concussion, and like, a dislocated shoulder or something? God, you should see that hand, Jesus Christ, it’s totally fucking _mangled_ , I don't even know how that could've happened…” he trailed off, silent for a few seconds until Mikey motioned for him to get on with it. “His throat is also really wrecked somehow, but I don't think that's the real reason he can't talk.” Gerard’s brow was furrowed in genuine concern, and he took on a worried, pondering expression. “And he looks like he’s been starved to death in the dark somewhere, all ghostly white, skin and bone. I gave him some food last night and he wolfed it down like some kind of wild animal, like he hadn't seen food in years. It was terrifying.”

Mikey nodded grimly to himself, the guy’s situation seeming more and more sinister the more Gerard described it. Gerard shot up from the couch as soon as the coffee machine chimed, an almost desperate look in his eyes.

“And you said he was sick?”

Gerard sighed again, loud enough for Mikey to hear it from the other room. He was exhausted.

“Yeah. The reason why I haven't slept for the past _two_ nights, I guess. He woke me up at like, three in the morning last night, ‘cuz he was coughin’ like he was dying. The walls aren't _that_ thin, it was fuckin’ loud.” Gerard plopped himself back down onto the couch and shuddered, remembering those wet, whooping coughs. “I asked him to open the door so I could check up on him and he got up to unlock it but he was so weak he just _fell_ , Mikey. He just collapsed right there on the floor. Like, _whump_. I don't know if it was weakness from illness, or some other injury, or what, but it was fucking scary.” Gerard decided to leave out the part where Frank pissed his pants, feeling he owed him at least some dignity.

Mikey nodded again, feeling really sorry for both the boy and Gerard. The situation might've been even worse than he thought. Gerard looked almost hysterical again.

“So I unlocked the door and carried him into the bathroom and he had a panic attack, and hell if I know what those are like, I used to get them all the time, but it was so scary watching someone else have one. And there was nothing I could do because, did I mention, he's super touch-averse. Like, he flinches whenever I even go near him. I didn't want to make him feel worse, so I just sat there on the floor while he cried and coughed and _cried_. Afterward he seemed really surprised that I sat there and waited for him to be alright, but I don't know what else I would've done. I felt so fucking guilty. I feel so fucking guilty, Mikes, and I don't even have anything to feel guilty for.”

Gerard slumped into Mikey’s side and Mikey rubbed his brother's shoulder, albeit a bit awkwardly because of how close together they were. His wrist rested against Gerard’s neck, where he could feel Gerard’s pulse beating fast from stress. Gerard took a sip of his coffee—scalding, black—and began to speak again, unprompted.

“I-I dunno, I think he has pneumonia or something. Or maybe like, really bad bronchitis. I don't know how long he was out in that storm the other night, but it must've been a while. His lungs sound like they're shaking when he breathes, and he was coughing up blood last night. Not a lot, but a good fuckin’ amount. I'm not a doctor, Mikes, but I know he's in bad shape.”

“I know, Gee, I know,” Mikey said, truly feeling much worse for Gerard now that he’d actually learned the extent of the predicament he was in. He hadn't seen Gerard this worried about someone in ages, not since a few years ago when their grandmother, Elena, had been in the hospital. Something about it was really heartwarming, seeing Gerard care so deeply about someone like this, but Mikey could see it in Gerard’s eyes that he was legitimately afraid of this kid dying. And he knew, he just _knew_ , that Gerard would blame himself entirely for it if the kid did croak. Something that Gerard had said earlier suddenly tickled the back of Mikey’s mind.

“He said you can't take him to the hospital? Why?”

Gerard shuddered slightly. “That’s the worst of it. Wherever I rescued him from, that _house_ —it’s fucking dangerous. I'm absolutely sure that whoever hurt him so bad, whoever crushed his hand and beat up his face and bruised him all over and nearly starved him to death, it's the same person who tied him up that night to die in the freezing rain. Someone there hurt him, has been hurting him, and I don't think it was just physical. Oh God, it's _not_ just physical.” Gerard sat forward and put his face in his hands, dragging his palms down his cheeks.

“He’s fucking terrified, like I said. But it goes so fucking deep. He doesn't let me touch him, not even go near him, really, without freaking out. He flinched when I just moved my arms up to stretch, like I was going to...to _hit_ him.” Gerard stopped and took a deep breath, his hands clenching tightly around the hot mug. “All he does is nod, whatever I say to him, he just blankly _nods_ , like it would kill him to disagree, and it's unnerving to say the least, to imagine what could have happened to him to make him so afraid to say no. He can't talk and it's not just because of his fucked up throat, no, someone actually made him _scared to speak_.”

Gerard paused, trying to catch his breath.

“And _he_ thinks that if I take him to the hospital, someone there will recognize him and take him back to that wretched place. And also somehow put me in danger as well.” Gerard twisted his fingers in his hair.

“I don't know what to fucking do,” he said, his voice cracking. “He’s so fragile, Mikey. Nobody is born that way. He's so _young_ , Mikey.”

“Holy shit, Gerard,” Mikey said softly. Because, _holy shit_. “What’s his name?”

“Oh. Frank,” Gerard said, a ghost of a smile on his otherwise distressed face. “I'm glad he told me at least that. It's a nice name, I think.”

“Yeah,” Mikey said, because he really didn't have anything more to say in response to everything Gerard had just told him.

“Sorry for dumping all this on you, man,” Gerard said suddenly, sitting up. “I know you're just a kid too and it's gotta suck that I keep dragging you into my shit.”

Mikey shook his head. “It's okay.” Mikey and Gerard had been unloading their problems on each other for years, helping each other out when things got rough. It was just what brothers did, but Gerard needed reminding sometimes that his problems were valid too. Gerard nodded to himself for a moment before looking back up, an earnest expression on his face.

“So what do you think I should do about the hospital thing? He really needs some medical attention,” Gerard said, chewing on his lip.

“Don't worry, Gee, we’ll figure something out,” Mikey said as he rubbed Gerard’s shoulder comfortingly again, ideas already forming in his head.

As if on cue, a loud, wet cough sounded from down the hallway. Gerard jumped, almost dropping his mug to the floor. Frank was up. Gerard shot to his feet and set the the mug on the coffee table, fidgeting as he looked down at Mikey.

“I better go check up on Frank. He might be scared if he, uh...if he wakes up and he's all alone. But, um, it would probably be better if you stayed here. Meeting a new person first thing in the morning might be too overwhelming for him, y’know?”

Mikey nodded, almost smiling. It really was nice to see Gerard so concerned about someone else.

“Go check, I’ll wait here. I can meet Frank when he’s ready. I don't have any plans today.” He took a moment to look Gerard sincerely in the eyes. “I want to help, if I can.” He hesitated. “...as long as you're safe, Gee.”

Gerard gave his brother a relieved, thankful look and took off down the hall, stopping outside the guest room door. He heard a few more muffled coughs from inside, and a faint groan. Gerard had left the door unlocked last night after sending Frank to bed, but he knocked anyway, not wanting to just barge in.

“Frank? It’s Gerard,” he called. The coughing immediately ceased, like Frank was holding his breath. “Can I come in?” Silence. Gerard waited a few beats before saying, “Okay, I'm coming in.”

Gerard gently opened the door and stepped inside. He left it open a wide crack behind him and stood just inside the door frame, not wanting to make Frank uncomfortable with his proximity or enclose him in any way. Frank looked at him with wide eyes, scarcely blinking. He really was holding his breath, poised perfectly still, like a statue. The bruises of his black eye and broken nose looked gnarly, deep purples and blues surrounding the eye socket and bridge of his nose and a pale green color bleeding down onto his cheek, but he was able to mostly open his eye today, which at least meant he was healing. The room smelled sharply of vomit and faintly of urine, from last night. Gerard spotted the room’s small, bagless wastebasket beside the side of the bed where Frank was and cringed internally, but said nothing. He would just clean it up later. Frank looked incredibly ill, his ghostly pallor somehow even more strikingly pale than yesterday and his forehead coated in a sheen of sweat, small strands of hair plastered to the sides of his face.

“Good morning, Frank,” Gerard said softly, taking a few steps into the room. Frank jerked like he had been burned and started to shake. Gerard stopped, feeling lost. What could he have possibly said wrong? _Good morning?_

“G-G-Goo-Good m-m-morning,” Frank brokenly rasped out, eyes squeezed shut. His voice sounded terrible, scratched up like he was speaking through vocal chords of rust and wobbling like he was about to cry. His hand was fisted in the white duvet cover, which Gerard noticed was flecked with tiny specks of blood.

Gerard stood in shock for a moment before he rushed over to the bedside, momentarily forgetting his mental boundaries. He wrinkled his nose at the increased vomit smell but crouched and pried white-knuckled Frank’s hand from the blanket to take it into both of his, gently shushing him. Frank tried to pull his hand away at first, but eventually let it relax into Gerard’s hands as the man rubbed his sore knuckles. Some of them were split and scabbed over, like he’d been punching a wall repeatedly, hitting _something_. His skin was dry and cracked.

“Shh, shh, hey. You don't have to force yourself to respond if talking hurts you. It's okay, Frank, just relax.”

Frank clenched his hand tightly around one of Gerard’s, surprising Gerard with his iron grip. He shook his head, faster and faster. Gerard could almost feel his heart beating in his trembling hand, fast and erratic, like that of a mouse.

“I-I’m s-s-sorr-ry,” he choked out, barely audible, still shaking his head. “I-I-’m s-sorr—” He was cut off by a coughing fit, sounding even worse than he had last night. “I—”

“Frank,” Gerard said again, trying to sound firm yet unperturbed. “It's okay. It’s okay, you're alright. Just relax. You don't have to speak if you can't. I don't expect a ‘good morning’ from someone who doesn't feel good speaking, y’know? That would be ridiculous! Just a nod to show that you've heard is fine.” Frank paused and nodded his head a little, and Gerard tried to smile through his concern. “You don't have to apologize. Just please, try to calm down. Deep breaths, yeah?”

Frank nodded again, taking shuddery breaths that were frequently interrupted with small, phlegmy coughs. Gerard’s heart hurt from knowing how close Frank had been to crying just then, and he didn't even know why. Frank still had his eyes closed tightly, as if against a memory that he was trying to banish from his head.

Gerard just continued to rub small circles into Frank’s knuckles until the boy’s grip relaxed. He continued the calming gesture, making low shushing noises and massaging Frank’s uninjured hand with both of his own. He couldn't help but notice the ring of scars and marred flesh around Frank’s thin wrist, looking to confirm that it was on his other wrist as well. Some of the sores and cuts there looked fresh, no longer bleeding but still moist and reddish. Frank opened his watery eyes and saw Gerard staring, so he retracted his hand, looking embarrassed.

“Frank?” Gerard looked up, inquiring, and Frank suddenly became fascinated with the window across the room. “Can I bandage your wrists? I don't want them to get infected.”

It wasn't really a question, because Gerard was going to bandage Frank’s wrists regardless of what he had to say about it. Frank nodded shortly after a few seconds, though—not looking at Gerard, but consenting to care nonetheless. Gerard made a small affirmative noise and went to fetch the first aid kit from the bathroom closet, wondering all the way what kind of awful constraints could have caused that kind of damage to Frank’s wrists. Shackles? _Rope_? Gerard shivered. He would never forget how he found Frank tied up two nights ago, a noose of rough twine snug around his neck. Some of the wrist lacerations were fresh, but most of the others looked much less recent. If Frank had been struggling against forced restraints in the recent past, it definitely hadn't been the first time, or even the second.

When Gerard returned, Frank was biting the cuticles of his right hand, obviously a nervous habit. Gerard noticed that aside from his bitten-down nails, Frank had blood and scarring there as well, around his fingers. But, unlike his wrists, this was certainly his own doing. When he saw Gerard he instantly took his hand away and shoved it under the blankets, looking guilty. Gerard ignored this and sat on the edge of the bed, setting the kit down beside him.

 _Sorry_ , Frank mouthed. Gerard shook his head lightly and inconspicuously nudged the puke-filled bin away with his foot so that he wouldn't have to smell it so strongly.

“It's no problem, we all have bad habits like that,” Gerard spoke easily, glancing down at some of his own stubby nails. “Hand?” Gerard flipped open the clasps on the case and held out his left hand, palm up, while he searched the kit for what he needed. A few seconds went by before Frank apprehensively set his wrist in Gerard’s hand. Gerard looked up when he felt the light warmth against his open palm. Frank was trembling slightly, but he now appeared more nervous than frightened, if anything. Gerard smiled and took out the gauze. “Okay.”

Frank watched, rapt, as Gerard applied a liberal layer of Neosporin over his wounds and carefully sheathed his wrist in white. Gerard couldn't help but find it adorable how fascinated Frank appeared to be with the process, his eyes wide and focused as Gerard wrapped the roll of gauze around and around his wrist. A long, dark lock of hair fell into Frank’s face, and Gerard had to physically restrain himself from brushing it behind his ear. Gerard shook his head slightly and mentally scolded himself, earning him a puzzled look from Frank before the boy returned his attention to his wrist, as Gerard haltingly began wrapping the gauze around again. He grimaced to himself. What was he, some sort of doting foster mother?

Frank _was_ a handsome young man. Gerard couldn't deny this to himself. Just looking at his face made Gerard want to care for him, love him, keep him safe. He stole a quick glance up, looking at Frank’s sharp jawline and the faint scruff there, the bob of his Adam's apple as he thickly swallowed down his injured throat, his dark hair falling across his face and curling behind his ears. Gerard felt his face heat up and silently prayed that Frank wouldn't notice. He continued staring at Frank’s face, feeling suddenly unable to look away. He stared at Frank’s thin, pink lips with their defined Cupid’s bow, the way he bit one edge of his chapped bottom lip between his teeth. His round cheeks up against sharp cheekbones, his button nose, his delicate eyelashes, his heavy, smooth eyelids, his—

Frank sensed Gerard staring and briefly looked up, but Gerard was already looking back down.

—his eyes.

Gerard had subconsciously wrapped the gauze around too many times while he was distracted by Frank’s fucking _face_ , almost using the entire roll on just one hand. He cursed once under his breath and unrolled several lengths of gauze before snipping it and fastening it with a clip. Gerard’s face was burning with shame, and he hoped Frank wouldn't notice—but he knew he turned red as a tomato when he was embarrassed, and he could feel Frank giving him that puzzled look again, and he _totally noticed_. Gerard set Frank’s hand down and swallowed nervously, beckoning wordlessly for Frank’s other hand. Why the fuck was he nervous? Images of Frank’s gaze danced around in his head like strange, stilted camera flashes.

Frank very gingerly placed his injured hand in Gerard’s palm and Gerard busied himself once again. He took the opportunity to completely encase Frank’s broken hand using the rest of the gauze in an attempt to prevent the bones from shifting any more. Frank barely even winced. _His pain tolerance must be incredible_ , Gerard thought. Gerard knew that if _he_ had broken his hand and someone kept jerking it around with a roll of gauze, he'd be crying like a baby. He tried to focus on this realization, but more pressing thoughts kept crowding it out of his head.

Frank may have been a handsome young man, but his eyes were so big and round and guileless; they had that hint of curiosity and hint of fear gleaming in them that made him look so young, too young. It was like staring into the eyes of a child. Frank _was_ a child, for fuck’s sake. A child who had definitely been through some whacked-out shit. Gerard could feel Frank looking at him now instead of down at his wrists, but he couldn't find it in himself yet to look back up. He had no business looking at Frank like he just had been, especially with the knowledge that Frank had just escaped a life of some sort of abuse. Gerard set his jaw affirmatively. Frank would be a _friend_ , if anything. Nothing more. He barely even knew the guy. This was ridiculous. He clipped and fastened the gauze and finally looked up to give Frank a small smile, realizing how scary he must've looked just scowling deep in thought for several minutes. The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. It reminded Gerard of Mikey’s smile—he would take it.

“Here, let's get you up,” Gerard prompted. Frank nodded and pushed back the blankets and slowly swung his legs around, but then stopped, staring at the floor below him. Frank suddenly tensed and let out a wracking cough, his shoulders shaking with it. He had taken off the socks, and he curled his toes against the cool air. He sniffed and continued to regard the floor with apprehension, until Gerard realized he might still be too weak to walk.

“Oh, do you need help? Of course you do, c’mere,” Gerard said, realizing his error. He leant back against the bed to the right of Frank and cautiously looped an arm around his back and under his arm. Frank twitched at the contact but otherwise didn't react as Gerard set his hand on his waist.

“Put your arm around my shoulders,” Gerard instructed, waiting for Frank to do so. Frank hesitantly put his arm around Gerard and grabbed onto his shoulder, much tighter than Gerard had been expecting. Gerard stood and Frank stood with him, but Frank winced at the movement, and Gerard suddenly remembered Frank’s bad shoulder.

“Oh fuck, sorry, your shoulder,” Gerard apologized, stopping. “I would go around your other side, but…” Gerard regarded Frank’s limp left hand, mummified in gauze and rendered useless. Frank shrugged and nodded his head toward the door, obviously not keen on discussing his injuries and seemed to be growing squirmy under Gerard’s touch. Gerard once again recalled Frank’s deathly hospital phobia and gulped anxiously.

“Right. Okay.”

Gerard felt Frank shivering under his arm as they made their way into the hall, but his face at a glance appeared impassive, not fearful. Then again, he couldn't see Frank’s eyes, as they were trained at the carpet beneath his feet. Gerard noticed the goosebumps dotting Frank’s pale arms, the way he seemed to be sweating buckets but the inside of his forearm felt cold and clammy against the back of Gerard’s neck where his t-shirt collar had ridden down. _Frank must actually be cold this time_ , he thought, as Frank’s body gave another involuntary twitch. Gerard wrinkled his nose at the thought of how uncomfortable Frank must've been bogged down with fever and weakness, and at the sheer air of cloying _sickness_ that Frank was currently giving off, in copious heat and humidity and stench. At this rate, he would have to take a shower every other hour. The sound of Mikey tunelessly humming to himself came faintly from down the hall, and Gerard was about to smile when he felt Frank tense and stop in his arms. Shit, he forgot to tell Frank.

Frank maneuvered out of Gerard’s grasp, but kept his hand tight on the other man’s shoulder. He whipped his head to the side and gazed down the hallway, rigid and poised. He was faced closer to the hallway than Gerard, and an undiscerning eye might deem Frank’s actions noble and protective, guarding Gerard from a potential intruder. However, Gerard knew that Frank’s ever-tightening grip on his shoulder was one of fear, that one look into his eyes would show a churning sea of abject terror. Gerard felt guilt wash over him. Why hadn't he just mentioned Mikey’s presence to Frank when he had woken him up? He'd been too distracted ogling Frank’s stupid, beautiful face. _Fuck_.

“Frank, it's okay. I know that guy, I know that he's here. It's just my little brother,” Gerard quietly reassured. Mikey seemed to hear them and stopped humming, and Frank ducked out of view from the end of the short hallway to press his back against the hall closet outside the bathroom. He looked visibly less frightened, but wore a vaguely distrustful expression. He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head inquisitively, asking for more information. A spark of fear still glinted in his pupils.

“His name is Mikey,” Gerard elaborated. “He's your age, but he visits me on his own because he can drive and my parents don't live very far away.”

Frank only narrowed his eyes more. _Mikey?_ he mouthed. Gerard nodded, wondering what he was getting at. Frank coughed into his elbow and cleared his throat loudly, staring at Gerard’s chest rather than his face.

“He—He y-yelled at you f-for taking me in,” he whispered. Frank’s voice was still so hoarse and quiet and phlegmy that his true voice was probably much different from how he currently sounded, but he was _talking_. It was something. Gerard blinked in surprise for a few seconds before responding.

“Fuck, you heard that.”

It was not a question, but a statement of fact. Frank nodded. Gerard sighed.

“He really didn't mean anything by that, I promise you he was just looking out for me. We're pretty protective of each other, yknow? He loves me. He just wants me safe.”

Frank made a face that almost looked like pure bewilderment, but it was gone quickly. He nodded slowly.

“Mikey is here to help us,” Gerard said. “He's going to help get you to a hospital where you'll be safe.”

Frank visibly tensed up again, then shook his head vehemently. His shaking returned with a vengeance, so bad that he sank to the floor after a couple of seconds, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“N-n-no,” he choked out, still very quiet but noticeably louder than he'd been whispering before. He hacked again. The way Frank was talking sounded painful, not only physically but emotionally as well. His stutter was also worse, something Gerard realized must be another nervous habit. Gerard crouched down and put his hand on Frank’s knee in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, but Frank jerked his leg away and curled up tighter.

“Frank—”

“D-d-don't t-t-t-touch m-me,” Frank shook out, barely audible. He coughed again, wheezing a bit.

Gerard backed up a little and put his hands up.

“Hands off,” he said. “But Frank, you've gotta understand why we're doing this. You're really weak and hurt pretty bad. You need the emergency room.”

Frank shook his head again and Gerard sighed. The one thing that Frank would refuse was the thing that he needed most.

“Frank, can you tell me why you hate hospitals so much?”

Frank paused for a moment and then shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. His breath was still uneven and shaky and Gerard’s heart was back to aching in his chest. Frank still hadn't broken down once since Gerard had rescued him, and Gerard wasn't about to be the one to cause it.

“Well, I don't know what happened to you last time you went,” Gerard began, and Frank’s whole body shuddered, “but I won't let that happen to you again. I'll be right there the whole time.” He paused, taking in Frank’s cowering figure. “Can you trust me?”

Frank seemed to realize that Gerard wasn't going to give this up and slumped his shoulders, defeated. He nodded slightly, but he looked miserable. Gerard couldn't help but feel like he was forcing Frank into this, even though he hadn't been forceful at all. It was a nasty feeling.

“Come on, use the bathroom and then I'll take you to meet Mikey. He's not scary, I promise. The kid wouldn't hurt a fly.” Gerard gently hoisted Frank to his feet and coaxed him into the bathroom. Frank gave one last distrustful look in Gerard’s general direction before he shut the door firmly, probably much louder than he'd intended. The door swung open again a few seconds later, Frank cowering into the side of the doorframe and looking up at Gerard with a panicked expression. Gerard stepped back and tried to make himself appear non-threatening.

“Hey, I'm not your mother,” he said. “You can slam doors here, I don't mind. I know you're stressed. You're okay.”

Frank let out a wheezy sigh and looked visibly relieved for a moment before giving the air in the middle ground between them another dirty look and closing the door again, much softer this time.

Gerard waited outside the door for a few more seconds before he untensed himself and retreated back to his own room to wait for Frank. He flopped down onto his bed and sighed, listening to the sounds of birds chirping outside his window and cringing at the way the sunlight fell just so he couldn't face any direction without being blinded by its rays. He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. It was going to be a long day.

( ) ( ) ( )

Frank gripped the counter in front of the bathroom mirror and breathed slowly, trying to collect himself. That had been too close for comfort; average people got angry at slammed doors, not just sick people like X. Gerard hadn't gotten mad, but he easily could've yelled at Frank for being so rude. Frank shuddered. Yelling was the worst—pure, concentrated rage that worked its way underneath his skin and made him prickle with fear every time, even when the yelling wasn't even directed at him.

He hoped Gerard would never raise his voice at him. Frank didn't know what he'd do if he found himself feeling unsafe with the people he was living with again. The only thing that was keeping him together right now was pretending that this place was safe, when in reality, he didn't know this for certain at all. And he wasn't even keeping it together, he was falling apart. He’d had a panic attack when Gerard just said “good morning” to him, such a benign phrase, but it reminded Frank so strongly of what X had said to him the last time he was raped that it had left him a babbling mess.

_Too good to say ‘good morning’ to me now, huh, bitch?_

Frank breathed out through his nose and bit his tongue, trying to swallow back his nausea. He felt like he was dying, and it wasn't just the pneumonia. Frank grimaced as he looked at his face and arms covered in bruises and scars, his bandaged wrists, his bloody knuckles, his sweaty, sallow skin. Once he felt steady enough, he made his way to the toilet and sat down to pee, still feeling too weak to stand. He stared blankly at the tiny closet opposite him and contemplated what he'd just gotten himself into.

He had agreed to let Gerard take him to the hospital. How, he wasn't quite sure. Gerard had just laid out the situation, plain and simple, so if anyone had tricked Frank into agreeing to go through with this insane plan, it was himself. He had tricked himself into trusting Gerard, Gerard with his soft, gentle hands and fretful, sort-of-nasally voice. Or maybe Gerard had tricked him. Frank frowned. Either way, someone had tricked someone. It just didn't check out. Frank didn't _trust_ people, and people didn't trust him because he was often more of an object in a room than a person. Even before the basement, he was pretty sure he had been regarded as a bit of a weaselly kid, or otherwise ignored altogether, as he'd never been very popular. Trust was not a word in his mental vocabulary.

_Can you trust me?_

Frank couldn't figure out why it was this one line that made him finally crack and agree with Gerard, going against his every gut instinct to avoid the hospital at all costs. He didn't know why he agreed at all. He _didn't_ trust Gerard, at least, he thought he didn't, and the now-very-real prospect of being taken outside this home where he could be recognized in public filled him with dread.

Gerard may have rescued him, but Frank didn't know a thing about the guy. He could still have some sort of motive, for all Frank knew. Frank took a moment to consider his hapless savior, then shook his head, smiling faintly. Nah.

Then he shook himself, reminding himself that nobody is ever quite who they appear to be. He was once again startled that his brain was so quick to rule out Gerard Way as a potential threat. Even if Gerard didn't have a conscious motive, everyone has demons, and Frank would've liked to avoid having to fight Gerard’s. He would have to remain vigilant.

Frank pulled up the baggy sweatpants and sighed when they dropped down almost to the tops of his thighs. He kind of wished that Gerard had given him jeans or something so that he could wear a belt. The string was missing from the sweatpants, and Frank wondered if Gerard had removed it on purpose. Christ, it was like being in a mental hospital here. Frank was simultaneously touched that Gerard would even think about something like that and infuriated that Gerard assumed him to be so weak. Frank caught another glimpse of his hideous face in the mirror as he washed his hands and suppressed the urge to vomit. But was it really such a wrong assumption to make?

Frank felt sticky from sweat, but Gerard hadn't given him another change of clothes yet and he wasn't about to ask for one. He felt himself struggling to breathe just from standing up and tried to even out his breaths. He was so frail now, his lungs so weak from malady and his muscles so weak from staying mostly latent for over a year, he was sure he’d pass out from just going up a flight of stairs. It was a good thing Gerard’s house was only one level. He splashed some water on his face and winced when he touched his nose. Even though he’d set it, it still hurt like hell. He hoped that it would heal right; he didn't think he could deal with his face looking even stupider than it already did.

Frank slowly cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. Gerard was absent from his post outside the door. He had probably retreated to his room, which meant Frank was going to have to go find him, because there was no way Frank was facing Gerard’s brother himself. The sounds of Gerard's brother—Mikey—clanging around in the kitchen and quietly humming filtered down the hall. Frank noticed his hands shaking again and balled them into fists to get himself to stop. This was it. He was going to come out of the bathroom and virtually sacrifice himself to these men, be completely at their will. He knew he was too weak at the moment to protect himself or fight back if anything went wrong, and the thought was terrifying. They wanted to take him _out there_ , where he could easily run into someone who…knew him.

 _Fucked you_ , he thought to himself. He thudded his forehead gently against the door. Fuck.

Frank took a shallow breath, as not to cause another coughing fit. This didn't feel like it would help him at all, the sense of impending doom churning in his belly like a restless fire. As he bit the bullet and slipped into the hall, it felt more like he was slipping into the unknown.  _What do I have to lose?_ he thought to himself. He stopped and shuddered.

_Everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologize for the long(er) wait. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble and at first was planned to be much longer, but it was getting difficult to manage so I chopped it up into two chapters: this one and the next one. That hopefully means less wait time between this update and the next. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments and feedback are sincerely appreciated. <3
> 
> EDIT: Gerard didn't actually remove the sweatpants string on purpose. Frank is just a chronic overthinker, as per usual.


	6. Inpatient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank is really, _really_ afraid of doctors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of rape and abuse

Frank leaned against the wall for support and listened closely, ultimately deciding that Gerard must be in his room, as he could still only hear one pair of footsteps in the kitchen-slash-living room area down the hall. He liked to think he could only hear one pair of lungs breathing from that direction, as well. Constantly watching out for people invading his space at random hours of the night had made his senses painfully acute.

He pushed himself off the wall and hobbled over towards Gerard’s room, wincing as he did so. He had been just limping around yesterday, the pain almost tolerable, but somehow he felt twice as sore today. He hoped that just meant he was healing. When Frank arrived in front of Gerard’s room, he found the door open a crack. He cautiously pushed it open wider and peered inside. Gerard was splayed out facedown on the bed, and he almost looked dead if not for his back rising and falling slightly with his breaths. A pillow was pulled over his head in order to block out the sun, his limp hands only somewhat pinning it in place. Frank took in a long, steady breath. Was he asleep?

“G-Gerard,” he rasped out, feeling out of place. Frank’s throat seared, like it was being sliced up by a thousand tiny, burning needles. God, that hurt. He also noticed his hands begin to shake again, his heart rate slightly jumping. He hated speaking. He hated how afraid it made him feel. He hated how much it hurt.

Gerard didn't even stir. Fuck, he was asleep. Frank suddenly felt a wave of guilt engulf him, knowing that he was the reason why Gerard was so exhausted. He had kept Gerard up all night with his stupid sickness and his stupid pissing his pants and his stupid fucking panic attack. This guy had been so dead-set on taking care of Frank for the past two days, and Frank had been in such a trance of pain and emotional void, probably from the shock of his sudden new surroundings, that Frank had somehow forgotten that he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve this care. He didn't deserve anything at all. Right now, X was probably looking for him harder than his parents were. The thought hurt his heart. Goes to show how much he was really worth.

 _Nothing_ , Frank reminded himself. _You're nothing._ His throat felt tight and he swallowed it down, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't be weak. Here, there was no place for him to be alone. If he cried, someone would hear him, and then they'd see how worthless and pathetic he really was—even more than he'd already proven himself to be—and throw him to the curb without a second thought.

_Good boys don't cry._

Sure enough, that nagging thought from yesterday returned to his mind, the one that tempted him to call this house a home.

_It's safe here. I want to be safe. I don't wanna leave._

Frank’s mind wandered back to the impending hospital visit and his stomach roiled. He tried so hard not to think about it, all the horrible memories that came back whenever he even heard the word _doctor_ , or _hospital_ , but it was so hard to fight it. Frank leaned against the inside of Gerard’s doorframe and sank to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. The danger still felt so present, and there was nothing he could do. He would be even worse off if he ran away from this place, but oh _God_ , these men wanted to take him _there_.

Doctors marked one of the darkest times in Frank’s stay with X, aside from the beginning. The only time X had ever taken him to a hospital was after the knife incident with Nineteen, when Frank was already in shock from all the blood loss and the sheer monstrosity of having a man being shot dead right on top of him, seeing the life leave his eyes, being trapped underneath his sickening deadweight and everything _hurt_. The hospital should've helped him heal...but it didn't. After a few rare peaceful days, X’s men were everywhere once again, posing as uncles, family friends, brothers. Some of the nurses were in on it, too. They would touch Frank in that hospital bed, molest him while he was utterly helpless to defend himself, and they knew that he couldn't scream for help but their disgusting hands went over his mouth anyway. They would bend him in horrible positions and make him struggle so that his stitches would snap open, over and over and over, so the nurses just had to keep stitching him up, stitching him up, stitching him up until he felt he was only held together by thread, sewn together all over his frail body like some sort of twisted Frankenstein's monster. This torment is what left him with the horrible, jagged scars that he still bore, marring his body forever. They would threaten him too, saying awful things, threatening to cut out his tongue, or blind him, or castrate him, and he was so scared because he knew that they _could_. And in his months there, one night brought it all down. Frank knew what he saw. He saw X outside the window of his hospital room. He saw him pull out a wad of cash from his wallet and count out several hundred-dollar bills, handing them over to another, younger man in a clean white shirt with a badge and a walkie-talkie. When he walked away, Frank read the back of his shirt. _Security_. He knows what he fucking saw. He didn't doubt that X had paid off his doctor as well. They were all in on it. He had been missing for several months at that point, and he could tell that some people realized this, some of the kinder nurses. But no one did anything. No one helped him. They only hurt or ignored him.

Frank sighed and looked into Gerard’s room blankly. If he got hurt again, it was what he deserved. His parents and friends weren't looking for him, and even public institutions that were supposed to protect him, like hospitals and the police, didn't care about his wellbeing. There was no reason for anyone else to suddenly start caring for him, not now of all times, after all that had already happened to him. He knew it made him unlovable. It hurt, but he had to accept it.

Gerard made a low whining noise and rolled over, stretching. Frank froze, swallowing thickly, and shook his head as if that would clear it of his horrible thoughts. Shit, he hadn't made any noise, had he? He didn't wake Gerard, right? He rose slowly and subconsciously took a step back, holding onto the doorframe. Gerard lifted his head slightly and blinked blearily at him.

“Frank?” he said, seeming confused. Suddenly, he jolted upright, looking around the room and throwing the blankets off his legs.

“Shit! Did I fall asleep? How long has it been?” Gerard made his way over to Frank, who was still standing stock-still in the doorway.

Frank couldn't answer both questions without speaking, so he decided to go with the one he could answer and nodded. Gerard scrunched up his nose.

“Sorry, my bad. Guess I'm just really tired,” he said regretfully. “Not that it's your fault!” he added, after seeing Frank’s guilty expression. “I just haven't properly had my coffee yet, you know how it is.”

Frank nodded, pretending to agree. He vaguely recalled when he used to drink coffee every morning before school. He remembered liking it, but he'd only been drinking it regularly for about a year before he was kidnapped, so his experience with the caffeinated elixir that Gerard seemed to solely subsist on was minimal at best. He barely even remembered what it tasted like.

“How long were you standing there?” Gerard continued, turning his attention back to Frank. “You could’a just come in and shook my shoulder.”

Frank just shrugged slightly. Was that meant to be a test? He wasn't sure, but Gerard’s words confused him either way. This room was Gerard’s space; Frank knew better than to intrude, unless he wanted to be punished—or yelled at, at the very least. Gerard had kept to his word and hadn't hurt Frank yet, but everyone had a breaking point, Frank thought to himself. Most people drew the line at personal space. Gerard shrugged back at Frank and slipped past him into the hall, turning back to face him.

“Alright nevermind, let's get going then. I don't know about you, but I’m fuckin’ starving.” Gerard inhaled deeply and seemed to perk up at something he smelled. “How do pancakes sound? I think Mikey is making some right now.”

Frank couldn't smell anything because of his clogged sinuses, but his stomach gave an involuntary growl at the mention of food. He thought of pancakes, light and fluffy and buttery, and how _good_ that sounded right now. He was surprised that he was even hungry at all, considering the inordinate amount of pasta he’d consumed the previous night.

 _Which you threw up at 5 in the morning_ , Frank reminded himself. Oh, yeah. Eating large amounts of rich food was no good for his weak stomach, especially after eating next to nothing for over a year. He would have to pace himself better when eating, no matter how hungry he was.

When they entered the kitchen, Gerard first and Frank trailing quietly behind, Mikey was scraping two pancakes from the pan onto a plate, topping off a stack of them that was piled impressively high. He put the pan in the sink and shut off the burner, turning to face them.

“Oh, hey, Gerard. You had an open thing of Bisquick in your pantry, and I wanted pancakes, so…” Mikey trailed off and shrugged a shoulder. Gerard smiled.

“Thanks, Mikey,” Gerard said, stepping forward to take the plate off the counter and place it on the kitchen table.

Mikey grabbed an extra plate from the cabinet to divvy up the pancakes between him and his brother, but as Gerard stepped aside he saw Frank, who had been undeniably hiding behind the taller man. Frank froze as Gerard’s brother made eye contact and he quickly moved his gaze from Mikey's face to his hands and body, waiting to see what he would do. The guy was tall but gangly, Frank thought. Not very strong-looking, but undoubtedly stronger than he was. Mikey just blinked at Frank for a second before grabbing another plate and putting both dishes on the table, sitting down.

“Come have a seat, Frank?” Gerard said in a careful tone, sitting down in his own chair across from Mikey and leaning over to pull out a chair for Frank.

Frank only hesitated for a few seconds before awkwardly limping over. Gerard had phrased it more like a question, but that had been an order. The last thing he wanted was to displease Gerard, who had (for some unfathomable reason) offered his home and unfailing hospitality to Frank, who was assuredly worthless and undeserving of such kindness. Frank tried to hide it, but he couldn't help wincing when a jolt of pain ran up his spine as he sat down, even though he’d been expecting it. Gerard’s brows knitted together in concern and confusion but he pressed his lips together and didn't say anything. Mikey reached over and served himself about a third of the pancake stack. Gerard grabbed Frank's plate and put about half of the remaining pancakes on it before sliding it back over to Frank and taking the remaining food for himself. A pregnant silence followed, in which the only sound filling the kitchen was the scraping of Mikey’s knife across his plate as he cut up his pancakes. Gerard still hadn't touched his. Neither had Frank.

“Mikey, this is Frank,” Gerard said abruptly. “And Frank, this is Mikey,”—he glanced at Mikey, something of a smirk on his face—“my little shit of a baby brother.”

Mikey lightly punched Gerard in the arm, so light that even Frank could tell it barely hurt. He turned to look at Frank impassively from behind his wire-framed glasses.

“Hi, Frank. It's nice to meet you,” Mikey said, briefly glancing at Frank as he said “hi,” but diverting his attention back to his food almost instantly. He was shoving a syrup-drenched piece of pancake into his mouth before he even finished saying the word “you.” Gerard observed this and pinched the bridge of his nose, giving his brother a sidelong glance from under his hand. He looked stressed, and it made Frank feel a little more stressed, as well.

“We’re gonna get you well,” Mikey added after he finished chewing. “We’ll take care of you.” He and Gerard then launched into a conversation debating the specifics of the doctor’s visit, but Frank’s mind felt fuzzy all of a sudden. All he heard was _doctor_ , _doctor_ , _doctor_ and each time it was spoken he felt his stomach clench. His head still hurt.

Mikey didn't have a very expressive face, Frank noticed. If he was happy to meet Frank, he didn't show it. If he felt any hostility towards Frank, he didn't show it either. It was unsettling, and despite what Gerard had said about Mikey trying to help, Frank was inclined to think that the guy didn't care much for him, especially based on the conversation he’d heard between Mikey and Gerard on his first day here. It could just be that he was an apathetic teenager, but who knew. Frank looked down and poked a pancake with his fork. He was so hungry, but his nerves about what was to follow after breakfast kept him from eating. And he still wasn't sure of Gerard’s rules regarding food, or Mikey’s, for that matter.

“Frank, are you hungry?” Gerard asked, mouth half full. Frank just looked at him, feeling unable to answer. He would eat if Gerard wanted him to eat. _Hungry_ was a physical feeling, but it didn't directly correlate to eating, at least not in Frank’s brain. Frank was painfully aware that Gerard’s question was a veiled way of saying “Why aren't you eating?”, and that the fact he couldn't even consider eating in front of people without asking their permission first was weird and wrong. But there was nothing he could do. He just didn't want to be punished, didn't want to overstep his bounds. He bit his tongue as if to hold back words, even though he hadn't even considered opening his mouth. Gerard sighed, but he didn't sound annoyed. He sounded sad.

“Frank. If you're hungry, eat.”

Frank wasted no time after that.

( ) ( ) ( )

Gerard couldn't help but notice how anxious Frank looked on the car ride across town, only breaking the silence to cough or give a sniff from his stuffy nose, constantly shifting nervously. Even though Gerard hadn't wanted to leave Frank alone, they’d had to put him in the backseat because Mikey needed to ride shotgun to give Gerard directions. Mikey’s grand plan had turned out to be to take Frank to the free clinic on the far side of town instead of the local hospital. Mikey had made an appointment earlier, and they were now on their way. Not only would it be far less expensive, but the nurses and doctors there wouldn't be as prying about Frank’s personal information, which Frank obviously was extremely reluctant to give. Gerard still didn't even know his last name.

As he pulled into a stop at an intersection, Gerard turned around and looked at Frank for what seemed like the hundredth time. Frank had been staring out the window intently while they were moving, but as they stopped next to another car he immediately ducked his head, staring at the seat cushion in front of him. His forehead was still shiny with sweat, and Gerard hoped it was just from nervousness and not fever.

“Gerard, stop looking at him, he'll be fine. We're almost there, anyway.” Mikey stole a brief glance at Frank himself, wondering what Gerard looked so worried about, before straightening up as the light turned green and Gerard eased the car forward.

“Turn here!” he said suddenly, just as they were beginning to gain speed. Gerard braked suddenly and Frank make a wheezing sound like the wind got knocked out of him.

“Yeah, turn here,” Mikey repeated as Gerard pulled into the parking lot. Gerard rolled his eyes and parked close to the front of the building so Frank wouldn't have to walk very far. He grabbed the notepad and shoved a pen from his cup holder into his pocket, doubting that Frank would want to use it but bringing it along just in case.

The waiting room was a menagerie of malady. A harrowed-looking mother sat by the reception desk with a young boy beside her, who was wailing loudly and clutching what was clearly a broken arm. An elderly nun sat a few seats away with her fellow sister, scratching at some sort of skin condition on the back of her hand. A man with a greasy mustache who appeared to be homeless was hunched in the corner. He tapped the top of a beer can a few times before popping the tab, making eye contact with the receptionist before taking a swig. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then shook her head and turned to make a phone call. Gerard glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 11:14 A.M.

He blinked a few times and turned his back to the man, shuddering. A nasty little voice in his head whispered that he was in no position to judge, because at this time last year, he'd been drinking even earlier in the morning, and had probably been getting drunker, to boot. That hit a little too close to home. He sighed and shuffled slowly up to the reception desk, trying to keep pace with Frank. The receptionist glanced at them and then spoke into her corded phone.

“Hold, please.” She put the phone back in its cradle and pressed a button, probably cueing some truly heinous elevator music to play in the caller's ear. Then she turned to them. “How can I help you?”

“Uh, yes, we have an appointment for 11:30? Under the name Way,” Gerard said, shifting on his feet. Doctor’s visits always made him anxious—so many people to talk to, so many loopholes to go through just to see if you were healthy or not. First the receptionist on the phone, then the receptionist in the office, then the nurse, then the doctor, then the receptionist again, then the phone _again_. It was exhausting. And Gerard, in that moment, felt truly exhausted. The boy beside the reception desk was still screaming and his mother wasn't even making an _attempt_ to quiet him. Gerard could feel the headache building up behind his temples already.

“Gerard A. Way?” the receptionist asked, pulling up his name on her computer. Gerard nodded.

“That’s me.”

“It says here that this appointment is not for you, but for a guest? Is it...” She leaned over the high reception desk to see Frank better, who promptly skirted away and hid behind Gerard completely. She craned her neck a bit more and smiled awkwardly. “...him?”

Gerard nodded. “Yes, this is Frank, he's my…” Gerard looked behind his back at Frank, who looked white as a sheet and was gripping the back of his shirt with his functional hand. “...my cousin,” he finished unconvincingly. The lady seemed to buy it, smiling and making a few clicks on her mouse.

“Excellent, just have a seat and we’ll be right with you.”

Frank reluctantly released his shirt and Gerard sat down next to Mikey, who had found a spot that was perfectly distant from all the other patients, and expected Frank to sit beside him, but he was just standing there.

“Frank?”

The boy eyed the empty seat for a few seconds before kneeling on the floor at Gerard’s feet, back parallel to the chair legs. He curled over slightly and shifted his knees uncomfortably on the dubiously stained green linoleum. Gerard remembered the bruises he’d seen on those knees through the ripped jeans Frank had been wearing when he'd found him, purple and blue and green and almost black. He shared a look with Mikey before leaning down to Frank.

“Frank, you don't have to kneel,” Gerard said quietly. “C’mon, it's okay. No one’s gonna be mad if you sit in the chair. Plus you'll be more comfortable up here than on the ground.”

Frank just let out a low whining sound and moved to wrap his arms around Gerard’s ankle and calf, burying his face into Gerard’s knee and gripping his leg like it was a lifeline. It struck Gerard then how _scared_ Frank truly was. He had known Frank was scared of hospitals, but _this_ was something else. Frank was shaking like a leaf, and Gerard was sure his knuckles would be white if he could see them beneath the bandages. His breaths were heavy and uneven and raspy and loud, through his mouth, through his mouth, through his mouth. His coughing was more frequent as well, and loud, which only drew the entire room’s attention to his compromising position. Even the toddler by the reception had stopped crying to stare at the two of them inquisitively, big eyes darting between Gerard and the prone man clinging to his ankle.

Gerard decided to abandon the idea of convincing Frank to sit on the chair. If he was most comfortable on the floor, and he was this terrified, the best thing Gerard could do was comfort him. He hesitantly reached down and patted Frank’s head, very slightly carding his fingers through the top of his hair. Frank made another small whimpering sound and tightened his grip, flinching violently inwards. Gerard pulled back for a moment before deciding to rub Frank’s shoulder instead, something that had worked on that first day, in the bathroom. Frank relaxed only a hair, trembling as Gerard rubbed his shoulder and mumbled soft nothings into his ear, trying fruitlessly to calm him.

Mikey looked horrified. Not disgusted, just horrified. “Has he ever been _outside_ before?” he whispered to Gerard, leaning in. Frank whimpered again and Gerard wasn’t at all surprised that he’d mistaken these sounds for a scared dog on the night he’d found him. Gerard just _hmm_ ed, not taking his eyes off Frank, lost in thought. Mikey brought up a valid point; Gerard still knew nothing about what had happened to Frank, so it was a possibility that he’d really never been outside of...wherever he'd been. He eyed Frank’s milky white skin, his frail body. If he had ever been outside, it certainly seemed that it hadn't been for quite a long time. Gerard shivered.

“Frank?” a female voice said, somewhere to Gerard’s left. Frank twitched. Gerard looked up and saw a nurse standing in the clinic doorway, clipboard in hand. He steeled himself and nodded, standing. Frank still hadn't let go of his leg. He crouched down and rubbed his shoulder again.

“Hey, it’s time to go see the doctor. This'll only take a few minutes, I promise. Then we can go home.” Gerard tried not to read too much into his own words. Was his home _their_ home now? Frank’s and his? He supposed.

Frank looked at Gerard then, his eyes wide and lips shaking, looking at Gerard’s face but not into his eyes. Gerard noticed that Frank’s eyes and face were dry, he wasn't crying. But this was that same look he’d given him two nights ago when he’d found him tied to that tree, alone and impossibly afraid. Gerard squeezed his shoulder very lightly, careful not to hurt him, and coaxed him slowly to unfold and get to his feet. By the time they were all walking over to the nurse, she looked impatient and Gerard was probably closer to crying than Frank was.

“Only two can come back at a time, gentlemen. The exam rooms aren't very big,” the nurse informed, stopping them.

“I'll wait,” Mikey said immediately, backing up. Gerard looked back and Mikey gave him a meaningful look, nodding as his eyes flicked between Gerard and the terrified boy who was once again clinging to his shirt. _Go_. Gerard nodded, resolute.

The nurse led them to a room that was indeed very tiny, with just enough room for an exam table, a short counter with some cabinets, a scale, and one chair in the corner. Frank eyed the exam table like it was some sort of medieval torture device. Gerard looked to Frank for a silent nod of consent before very carefully lifting him up to set him on the table, once again in shock at how light and small he was. Frank’s breath quickened as they approached the table and he went into another coughing fit. When the coughing subsided, Frank wrapped his legs around Gerard and put his arms around his neck, clinging to him like a koala to a tree. His whole body was still trembling, but it felt even worse now that Gerard could feel it right against his own. Gerard rubbed Frank’s back with his free hand and just held him up, now feeling unsure that he should put Frank down anywhere at all.

“Sir, you need to put him down so I can check his height and weight,” the nurse said, raising her eyebrows. Frank turned his head and looked at her, somehow seeming to only notice her for the first time. She had bright blue press-on nails that were the same color as her scrubs. Her plastic nametag read _SHAWNA_. Frank was staring at her like he’d never seen a woman before.

“C’mon Frank, it's okay. It's just like a checkup,” Gerard said, trying to ease Frank’s legs off. Frank reluctantly set foot back on the ground and grabbed Gerard’s shirt again. Gerard saw how his knees were wobbling and wondered if he was using him for balance in addition to comfort.

“It's okay, hun,” Shawna echoed, motioning towards the scale area. Her demeanor had considerably softened once she saw how terrified Frank was. “Just come stand here, it'll be quick.”

Frank stood against the wall and hugged himself, bowing his head. He swayed a little and Gerard had to restrain himself from dashing over to catch him in case he fell.

“Stand up tall, honey.”

Frank straightened, looking slightly embarrassed underneath his fear. The nurse squinted at the meter stick markings on the wall.

“Five-foot-three,” she announced, jotting it down on the clipboard. Frank’s brow furrowed and Gerard made a mental note to ask him why he looked so upset about that later.

“Okay, Frank, hop up on the scale now,” she said, smiling at him in an endearing way. Frank complied instantly and she began fiddling with the weights on the top of the scale. When they balanced out, she frowned and jotted something down on the sheet but didn't say anything this time. Frank regarded her anxiously, as did Gerard, who was still standing beside him, leaning against the table.

“You can step down now,” she said quietly, addressing Frank. Frank did so and looked at her fearfully, like he sensed something malicious in her voice that Gerard didn't.

“Mr. Way,” she said a bit louder.

“Yes?” Gerard was nervous, now. The nurse didn't sound pleased at all.

“You are Frank’s caretaker, are you not?”

Gerard swallowed. Technically, not legally, but…

“Yes?” His answer sounded more like a question.

The nurse rounded on him, looking downright furious. Gerard jumped, not having expected that.

“What the _hell_ have you been feeding him?” she snapped. “Are you aware that he’s only _ninety pounds_? No one his height should be ninety pounds! His body can't handle that, no one’s can! It’s insane!”

Gerard felt the blood drain out of his face. “N-ninety?” He suddenly felt very out of his depth. He had known Frank was underweight, but—that was less than _half_ of what he weighed when he was Frank’s age. “I-I didn't know.”

“That's a BMI of 16! Maybe even less if he already ate today!” Shawna continued raging at him. “Do you want him to drop dead or something?!”

Gerard glanced at Frank, and he immediately wished he hadn't. Frank had curled to the floor, pulled his knees to his chest, forehead to his knees, and had his hands in his hair, maybe over his ears. Gerard felt anger rush through him. It was fine if _he_ was made to feel humiliated or angry, but if it was hurting Frank, it was _not_ okay. He pushed off of the table and closed the distance between him and Shawna. He didn't want to be too confrontational, but she was making Frank upset.

“That’s enough,” he said with as much authority as he could command in that instant, which wasn't much, but it gave the nurse pause. Gerard sighed. “You're upsetting him.”

Shawna turned to see Frank and immediately her demeanor shifted back as she knelt down beside him. She was apologizing profusely, but Gerard doubted Frank was hearing it. He was flinching away and looked like he was just waiting to be punched in the head. Gerard approached Frank’s other side and the boy immediately scrambled towards him, away from the nurse. Gerard gently lifted him and placed him on the soft exam table, and Frank didn't protest this time, just letting out a short, wet cough. Gerard sat beside him on the table and rubbed his shoulder. Shawna looked at them, a regretful look on her face.

“Just between you and me,” Gerard said quietly, afraid someone else might hear, “I rescued him from a really bad situation two days ago.”

“He’s only been in your care for two days,” Shawna repeated.

“Yes. Please don't tell the doctor that, though. I'm just trying to help.” Gerard regarded Frank for a moment before kissing the top of his head. “I just want him to be safe.”

Shawna nodded, standing in the doorway. “You're secret’s safe with me, Mr. Way. I really am sorry. Dr. Carlson will be in here shortly.” And with that she left, closing the door softly behind her. As soon as he had gone, Frank slumped, tension ebbing from his shoulders.

Frank was eyeing the notepad in Gerard’s lap, finally ready to say something, so Gerard handed it over, digging the pen out of his pocket.

 _women are scary_ , Frank wrote, his hand a bit stiff due to his scabbed knuckles. Gerard gave a wry little laugh at that.

“You and I definitely agree on that, dude.”

Frank didn't laugh along, instead furrowing his brow and writing more.

_people yelling is scary_

Gerard nodded, absorbing the language that Frank was using. As usual, he wasn't good at expressing his personal feelings or interests, rather, he was trying to convey them through the use of general statements. It was meant to be understood as _people yelling scares_ me, even if Frank was unwilling or unable to express that. Gerard nodded again in understanding. Frank took a moment to cough and swallow a few times before continuing to write.

_my mom and dad used to yell a lot. before_

Frank stopped suddenly and shoved the notebook and pen back towards Gerard, folding his hands in his lap and straightening where he sat. Gerard’s mind was a whirlwind. Before _what_? Why did he stop?

The door swung open two seconds later, and in walked a tall, older man in a white coat, wearing a stethoscope around his neck and a warm smile. He had salt and pepper hair and gray scruff on his chin. He sat down on the stool he had wheeled in with him and regarded them with the interest only a doctor can hold, waiting to see what ailments he can diagnose and cure.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Carlson,” the doctor introduced himself. He had a warm, rumbly voice and Gerard felt instantly more at ease, nodding a greeting, while Frank visibly tensed at his side.

“Hello, doctor. I’m Gerard Way.”

“Please, call me Chuck.”

Beside Gerard, Frank sat as still as a statue. Gerard saw that he was sizing up the doctor’s burly stature and could almost read his thoughts through the fear in his eyes. _I can't take him._ Gerard doubted that Frank could fight _anyone_ in the state he was in, but he understood the feeling. The man was much bigger than both of them.

“And you must be Frank,” Chuck said, turning to Frank, smile never leaving his face. Frank tensed up even more but managed to give a small half-smile, gone as soon as it had come. He was still looking down at his hands. Gerard was filled with the sudden, irrational desire to see that smile in full bloom.

Chuck pulled out a pair of synthetic gloves from a box on the wall and snapped them on, speaking as he did so. “Mr. Way, you've brought Frank in for treatment but it was your brother who called, correct? He was fairly vague on the phone. Can you tell me Frank’s specific symptoms?”

Gerard looked to Frank. “Stop me if I say anything wrong,” he said, and Frank nodded.

“I'm pretty sure he has pneumonia or something,” Gerard said first, because that seemed most urgent. “He coughed up blood last night and was feverish, too weak to stand. He’s also got a concussion. Seems to get lots of headaches, and he's thrown up at least twice in the past two days. And his left hand is really broken, probably most of the fingers and maybe some of the radial bones.”

The doctor wrote as Gerard spoke, giving serious-sounding hums of thought.

“His throat is damaged,” Gerard said, and decided to elaborate. “I mean, he can physically talk, though he chooses not to, but when he does it's very rough. And I’d like his shoulder and ribs to get checked out too, I think they might be damaged as well.”

Chuck looked at Frank with raised eyebrows, probably wondering how he got all those injuries.

“That's quite the list of ailments. You sure you're not forgetting anything?”

Gerard thought of the way Frank limped, the way he flinched when anyone got close, how he had been afraid of Gerard, a _stranger_ , getting into the shower with him. It all seemed to add up to something sinister, something that Gerard didn't feel within his rights to say out loud, just in case he was wrong.

“Frank,” Gerard said softly, pushing him the pen and paper. “Tell the doctor if anything else is wrong.”

Frank picked up the pen and just held it for several painful minutes, just staring at the paper and biting his lip so hard it turned white. The time stretched out awkwardly between them, and Chuck was just opening his mouth to dismiss it and begin his clinical investigation when Frank hunched over and scribbled something on the page, shoving the pad into the doctor’s chest quickly and forcefully. Gerard knew that Frank was trying to keep him from seeing it, but his eyes caught the words nonetheless.

_rape kit_

Gerard couldn't say he was surprised, but he was still twice as angry at whoever had hurt Frank. Chuck looked grave for a few seconds before blinking and looking up at Frank, who was doggedly avoiding his gaze. Something about his air had fundamentally changed, and the way he was looking at Frank pissed Gerard off for some reason, even though it was kind. He realized a moment later that it was because it was a look of pity.

“Ah, okay,” the doctor said, nodding. He set the notepad down on the counter and approached, looking at Gerard briefly before looking back at Frank, who looked immensely uncomfortable now. As he watched the doctor politely ask Frank to remove his shirt, he couldn't help but realize how brave Frank was for putting himself out in the open, coming to this doctor's appointment even though he was terrified to even step foot outside, and for admitting he needed medical help with something serious, even if it was humiliating or degrading for him to admit it. He knew that they would have to talk about this at some point, a _lot_ , but…

All that he knew right now was that Frank was incredibly brave, and he was incredibly proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter. All the love I've been getting for this fic really blows me away. If you're still reading, tysm!! <3


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